


Storm Chasers

by Mimbelwimbel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animals, Chapter soundtrack, Christmas, Confessions, Easter Eggs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fae & Fairies, Flashback Chapters, Folklore, Friendship, Guilt, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry's Birthday, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Fallen Fifty, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Lore - Freeform, Love Story, Love songs, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, POV Alternating, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Parseltongue, Past and Present, Plot, Poetry, Post-Hogwarts, Potter jokes, Redemption, Research, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn, Slytherins are Real Friends, Supernatural Elements, Support HEALTH - the REAL world's champion: COVID STINKS, Survivor Guilt, Suspense, but with lots of (dry) humour, canon easter eggs, dealing with loss/tragedy/war, magical amnesia, minor Lavender Brown/Fred Weasley, sometimes a bit sad, the wild hunt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:20:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 80,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimbelwimbel/pseuds/Mimbelwimbel
Summary: After The Battle of Hogwarts, the castle still needs rebuilding which is a bit of a 'therapy' for people after war.Draco comes a lot because he has nothing else to do.Harry comes a lot because he has way too much to do.One day, The Wild Hunt appears and Harry gets stolen away.People that get taken are forgotten by everyone.Only Draco remembers.a.k.a. Harry gets himself kidnapped and Draco needs to save him.Contains (in no particular order):fun and games, mortal danger, friendship, heartbreak, adventure, a wedding, betrayal, lore, love, laughter -  and fairies (of sorts)!Updates weekly on Mondays (across time zones).
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 41
Kudos: 46





	1. Prologue: On, on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey,  
> this story is for you!
> 
> This story is for all the great writers out there that made life more bearable when things were bad this year, especially GallaPlacidia, WouldItWere and Ladderofyears. Thank you!
> 
> This story is for my good friend and invaluable beta umbrellaless22 who inspired me to start writing. Go check out their stories! https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrellaless22/pseuds/umbrellaless22
> 
> This story is for I. who made me watch Teen Wolf which brought on my interest in The Wild Hunt. She would laugh her ass off about Lightning the horse.
> 
> But most of all, this story is for you! Readers out there, living in quarantine, lockdown or just a stressful life.  
> This is my gift to you - it might not be great but it's from the heart.
> 
> Best wishes,  
> Mimbelwimbel

_“Child, oh child, just heed my story!  
If you won't now, you will be sorry.  
When comes the winter with snow and ice,  
close your windows and close your eyes!  
Or The Hunt, The Hunt will be your demise._

__

__

_Child, oh child, just heed my word.  
When there's a clip-clopping in the dirt  
while winter storm from dark clouds cries  
and lightning bolts strike up in the skies  
Then The Hunt, The Hunt could be your demise!_

_Child, oh child, don't heed their call!  
The Hell Hunter comes, he comes for us all.  
And with him The Wild Hunt, all masks and disguise.  
On wind and on horseback they fall and rise.  
For The Hunt, The Hunt shall be your demise._

_Child, oh child, just heed my clues!  
When they take you, you will lose  
your home, your name, all earthly ties;  
even your life, a sacrifice.  
As The Hunt, The Hunt is now your demise._

_Child, oh child, don't you heed my sorrow?  
You'll ride today as you'll ride tomorrow.  
‘Forever’ the king of hell’s bind implies.  
Why didn't you listen to my advice?  
Since The Hunt, The Hunt has been your demise.”_

Narcissa Malfoy stopped singing and softly brushed a last, stray tear from her five-year-old son's resting face. He had finally fallen asleep. She let her gaze wander through the big windows when lightning lit the room for a split-second. It really was a bad thunderstorm tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
>  _“The Wild Hunt Lullaby”_ https://youtu.be/AhCyhrn9jp0  
> Mimbelwimbel - The Wild Hunt Lullaby


	2. Chapter 1: Hark! How the bells

“You're doing it wrong.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. Hard. “Why don't _you_ do it then?”

He didn't even look when his old school rival came to stand next to him.  
Of course Potter had to be here. Even though it was Christmas Day and the Boy Wonder was supposed to be somewhere homely, surrounded by friends (and probably, adoring fans). At least today Draco had hoped to be lucky enough not to have to look at those unsightly glasses.

Look he did though, when Potter lifted his wand and weaved a complicated figure into the air: Left, right, diagonally across, upwards curve and tiny clockwise loops fizzling out towards the end.

While Draco groaned inwardly upon realizing that, indeed, he _had_ been doing it wrong (he'd done counterclockwise loops, no wonder it hadn't worked properly), he took in his companion's appearance. Potter looked tired. He always looked tired these days, but today even more so than normally. His skin had an unnaturally dull pallor to it and there were dark circles under his eyes.

Draco had to smile bitterly. He himself probably didn't look much better. That's why they were here after all, out in the freezing cold, in the fast approaching dusk, on Christmas.

“Got it?” Potter asked with a slightly arched eyebrow.

“Yes, yes,” Draco took a deep breath, willing away his irritation. “This time together? On three.”

He counted quietly under his breath and they raised their wands simultaneously to cast the rearrangement spell. This time it worked and the bricks that had lain strewn across the frost covered grass floated into the air to re-form the southern outer wall of Hogwarts Castle they once had been.

It held for a few seconds before it crumbled.

Neither Draco nor Potter batted an eyelash at that. Rather did they both get into position to repeat the spell as many times as necessary. They were used to it by now. Since Hogwarts was an ancient building and its own magic made the repair process take longer than anticipated, spells on the castle's matter often needed several repeats to stick. 

While they were settling into a rhythm of reciting the incantation, Draco’s thoughts wandered back, wondering how it had come to be that he now was peacefully working side by side with Harry Potter as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

After The Battle of Hogwarts in the summer of this year, things had been chaotic. Draco and his parents had been arrested and charged with various Death Eater related acts. They had been tried in front of the freshly reassembled Wizengamot and would have probably all been sent to Azkaban if Potter himself had not made a surprise appearance and spoken for the defense. He had pointed out Draco's age and reluctance, Lucius' indifference towards the Dark Lord's cause just before the end and Narcissa's lie that had effectively saved Potter's life. Luckily for the Malfoys, his word held a lot of weight within the wizarding community nowadays (and also Lucius' inside information was highly welcomed).

That was how, one sunny day in early summer, the Malfoy family found themselves acquitted of their war crimes. And while coming home to the Manor after dwelling in holding cells for weeks should have been the best treat, they all felt an uneasiness that wouldn't go away. Too tainted was the house, with all the shadows of the past haunting it — and them.

So his parents decided to start anew and to permanently relocate to their summer residence in France. They both felt they needed the physical distance to work through everything they'd lost: their beliefs, their dignity, so many friendships and of course a sister and a sister-in-law.

Draco was a bit surprised when neither of his parents tried to make him go with them. His mother had smiled sadly and kissed him on both cheeks. His father had simply patted him on the back. And then they had left.

And Draco moved into the gatehouse on the Manor's grounds.

It wasn't that he couldn't have used some time abroad. But for Draco, going away at that point in his life would have meant never coming back. In his cell, he had had time enough to think about things in general and he had realized that so far he had always picked the easy way out. Yet this one time he didn't want to be a coward, he wanted to stick it out, get his life together.

So he stayed.

As days went by he started roaming the streets of Muggle towns, walking along cliffs, wandering cross-country though Britain's landscape. Hours and hours.

Next he sat down in a still intact room in the otherwise heavily destroyed Hogwarts, full of former schoolmates who mostly hated him, to take his N.E.W.T.s. The school had announced that despite everything, any of the seventh years who wanted to sit the exam should be allowed to. Naturally, everyone came. Thus the tests were ridiculously easy in consideration of half of the test takers' inability to partake in classes during the past year. Draco passed all subjects with flying colours. Obviously.

After he had gotten his wand back from Potter following the trial, Draco could've tried to find employment somewhere, but he didn't need the money and he also highly doubted that someone would actually hire a former Death Eater.

It wasn't a priority.

What Draco needed was... something else. Something of which he wasn't sure himself what it was. Just that he needed to find it. Preferably alone. Because, while everyone else was trying to get over the war, Draco was still in battle. With himself, his own demons, his guilt. 

He started avoiding big crowds. Even getting together with his old school friends was tense sometimes. In that case though, there were other factors in play as well.  
When he did meet people, however, it always had a purpose. Like that time in July he decided to visit Hogwarts to talk to the staff. Not about anything specific, just... that he still had bad dreams and he convinced himself that the castle was a good place to find distraction, maybe even closure. After all, dissecting the hell that had been Carrow-led Hogwarts last year was something best to be done with people who had been there as well. Still, it cost him quite some effort to gather his courage and face his former teachers. But he did it anyway. And curiously enough the conversations that he had dreaded turned out rather well. 

He also found something meaningful to occupy his time with: helping with the reconstruction of Hogwarts Castle.

It had been a one-time thing, at first. Professor Sprout had roped him into helping with the reorganization of the green houses while they chatted. But soon Draco found that that had been fun and had felt right.

So he came back. A lot.

In fact, working hard at rebuilding walls, sorting scattered things, fishing debris out of the lake, repairing paintings, planting new trees at the edge of the forest and such helped keeping the nightmares at bay, since he would fall into bed too tired to dream after a day spent fixing Hogwarts.

Draco became one of the major 'patch workers' of the castle (or Patchers as they called themselves). Those were people who came to repair things that had been damaged in the battle. But he wasn't the only one. Lots of folk came to help. Mostly current and former students and parents, but also others. Everyone worked together to make Hogwarts inhabitable again so that the school could open its doors in September. And with united strength they did manage somehow — only barely though, for Hogwarts' innermost resilience against outward influences was formidable. 

However when the school year started and summer came to an end, people stopped coming. Fewer helpers returned, their numbers becoming less and less, until it was only a handful of regulars.

Draco was one of them.

And strangely, so was Auror-in-training, busy-with-charity-events, my-life-is-so-great Golden Boy Potter.

It was annoying.

At least until Draco recognized the signs. How Potter showed up just as late in the night as Draco to fix a corridor after a bad nightmare. How he relaxed doing simple, repetitive work during which he could turn off his thoughts. How he was always only ever hungry _after_ the work was finished. And how he liked to fall into the easy banter they were so good at and which had by now become more lighthearted and less scalding.

Potter may have won the war but he surely hadn't won the dreamless-lottery.

And with the unspoken acknowledgment that they were both screwed up and were both trying to move past that, they settled into a quiet truce that saw them often working together these days.

Which was how Draco found himself here, on Christmas, fixing a wall with Potter.

“So...no plans for tonight, Malfoy?”

_Left. Right._

Draco glanced at Potter. “You're here, too.”

_Diagonally across._

Silence. Then: “Yeah, I... it is just hard to be at The Burrow after everything. Especially on Christmas. I mean, everyone's trying their best to act cheerful, but... there are these pauses... in between ...where his laughter would have been.” Potter swallowed and Draco felt the sudden urge to reach out and touch his shoulder.

But he didn't.

_Upwards curve._

It was like a silent agreement between them. While working together they would say whatever they couldn't say to others. Drop all pretense and be miserable, without being scrutinized or criticized or babied or pitied. Just letting it all out. Like talking into a void.

If anyone knew, they might find it weird that it was Draco that Potter confided in, of all people, and vice versa. But for them, it had come naturally. After all, they had literally gone through fire together.

Potter cleared his throat. “And it's still a bit awkward between Ginny and me. You know. After the breakup. Even though it was amiable and all.”

_Tiny clockwise loops..._

Draco flinched ever so slightly. While he was alright with not-talking about all things war-related, he wasn't particularly interested in discussing Potter's (lack of) love life. Too vivid was the memory of that day some weeks back when Potter had arrived with an explosive mood, being snappy and insufferable until he had finally roped Draco into a fist fight after provoking him on purpose. All of which had ended in a highly uncomfortable Draco with an armful of Potter.

Not that they never cried to each other. Tears made guest appearances often enough. But it never went _that_ far, never to DEFCON Hugging Emergency.

Just that once.

And Draco wasn't especially keen on a repeat performance.

_...fizzling out._

The wall finally stayed a wall and both young men lowered their wands.

“What's next?” Potter procured a bottle of water out of thin air (show-off!), took a sip and offered it to Draco.

“Well, there's a moving flight of stairs near the Hufflepuff common room that apparently glitches a lot. I was thinking of having a look at it.”

“Sounds good to me. I could use some warming up about now.”

Indeed, the wind had picked up, making the cold air almost painful to inhale. And there were dark clouds visible against the almost black sky now. A storm was coming.

Draco shivered. “Let's go then.”

“And maybe have some eggnog after, in the kitchens? It is Christmas after all.” Potter bumped his shoulder into Draco's (something Draco didn't appreciate – Potter being overly chummy) as they started towards the hidden side entrance for patch workers on the east side of the castle.

“Really? I hadn't noticed,” said Draco dryly while making a show of eyeing the humongous Christmas decorations all along the windows they were passing by.

Potter snickered and then smiled. “Merry Christmas, Malfoy.”

A beat.

Eight years of acquaintance, yet this was a first.

Despite the increase of wintry gusts Draco suddenly felt a spark of warmth blossom in his stomach. And a lump formed in his throat, which he quickly cleared. 

“Merry Chris–“

A deafening thunderclap made them both jump. And suddenly the air was filled with noise, terrible, screeching, maddening noise: rattling, screaming, hooting, yelling, wailing, groaning and grunting from a hundred throats. Followed by alluringly wild melodies and the din of thousands of sweet silver bells.

Draco pressed his hands onto his ears. What was happening? He turned around just in time to see a procession of the weirdest kind, illuminated by a flash of lightning: seemingly floating through the air, dozens and dozens of people of all ages – many on horseback, many afoot, some dressed in strange costumes, some almost naked –, accompanied by flocks of dogs, pigs, seafowl and owls, that were following in a long, winding line after a single tall rider on a white horse, were sharply contrasted against the momentarily lit night sky.

And while Draco's eardrums seemed to burst in the onslaught of clamor, he could faintly hear an underlying tune: _“Ho ho ho! Out of the way, get off the road, so that no one is abased!”_

Draco reacted on instinct. He dropped to the ground, hands covering his eyes. “Potter! Get down! It's The Wild Hunt! Don't look! _Don't look!_ ”

But the ever-rising cacophony of sounds made his words almost inaudible even to himself. “DON'T LOOK!”

The roaring reached its peak and Draco felt like the rushing of the winter storm's gales were trying to blow him away. He groped blindly for Potter to pull him down. But his hands came up empty. So, he waited. Trapped within the storm for what he experienced like an eternity, until in the end the turbulence had died down to nothing but a soft murmur, stray snowflakes falling gently.

And when he finally could lift his head again, he was alone in the quiet night. Potter was nowhere to be seen. The Hunt had taken him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
>  _“The Wild Hunt’s Theme”_ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mynzbmrtp9I  
> Johnny Cash - Ghost Riders in the Sky
> 
> The song doesn't really fit my idea of The Hunt but I like it, so ignore the lyrics, just acknowledge the line _"ghost riders in the sky"_.


	3. Chapter 2: To young and old, meek and the bold

_“Headmistress!”_

Clonk!

Minerva McGonagall spilled some hot tea onto her tartan dressing gown and only her innate Britishness stopped her from cursing out loud. She did, however, give Draco a _very_ stern look when he rushed in without knocking and found her sitting on her sofa in front of a cosy fire.

“Mr. Malfoy. I'm sure you have a really good reason to barrel into my _private_ chambers on Christmas Day at,” she glanced at the old grandfather clock in the corner, “almost midnight.”

“The Hunt took Potter!” Draco, having come in at a breakneck speed, nearly keeled over in his attempt to stop before crashing into his former professor.

“Pardon?”

“The Wild Hunt! Like, from the old nursery rhyme? We were outside fixing that southern wall and then there was a storm and, and, they were suddenly just there. Headmistress, they took him!” As windswept and out of breath as Draco was, he didn't much care about his lack of eloquence at the moment. How could McGonagall just sit there and calmly sip tea when Potter was missing?

Headmistress McGonagall carefully set her tea cup with the remainder of her Earl Grey onto the teapoy next to the sofa. “The Wild Hunt,” she repeated. “Mr. Malfoy, I assure you that that is merely a myth made up by gullible people who saw weird shapes within squall clouds and thought they were ghosts. Now, it's not uncommon among the easily-scared, yet I would have never thought that you–“

“Headmistress!” Draco all but yelled. “I saw them with my own two eyes! But that's beside the point. Have you not heard what I just said? _They have Potter!_ ”

The old woman's brows knitted together. “They have a potter among them?”

Draco stared at her.

If it had been any other person, he would have thought she was having him on. Draco Malfoy scared for Harry Potter. Ha ha, what a joke, let's pull his leg and play dumb, ha ha. It was stern, no-nonsense McGonagall though. Who was regularly sharing biscuits and stories with Potter during breaks, who had no sense of humour Draco knew of, who had been Potter's Head of House for six years, who was... currently looking at him like she had absolutely no idea who Draco was talking about.

“Not _a_ potter. _Potter_. Harry Potter? They grabbed him,” he said imploringly.

“I'm not sure I'm familiar with that name. A friend of yours? And you say The Wild Hunt stole him?”

Suddenly all his strength left Draco and he slowly let out a breath, sinking down onto a battered wing chair facing his interlocutor. “You're not familiar with Harry Potter.” This was starting to sound like a conversation between two parrots, always repeating the other's last words.

He put his head in his hands, then ran his fingers through his already tousled hair.

Impossible. It couldn't be. Or could it? Could the whispered stories of vanished or eradicated people really be true? That they never truly existed in the first place? Had Potter's life been erased when he'd been taken, like in the old tales? _'Even your life, a sacrifice'_. Was that even imaginable? Yet, here Draco was at the receiving end of the oddest gaze by someone who should know Potter better than most people in this castle.

He sighed deeply. Steady now, Draco.

“Okay. He's got black hair, green eyes, terrible glasses, yae high. He went to school here. You've known him since he was eleven. Ring a bell?” It was only his frustration that made him talk to a higher-up in such a mannerless manner. That and maybe the relatively friendly relationship he had built with most of the Hogwarts' staff over the last few months.

He was rewarded with a confused blink.

“Youngest Seeker at Hogwarts in a hundred years? Winner of the Triwizard Tournament? Defeater of the bloody Dark Lord?!” Draco's voice rose with every word until he was almost bellowing at the top of his lungs.

He got to his feet and drew his wand. _“Accio Modern Magical History!”_

The revised copy of a thick tome came sailing through the air from Headmistress McGonagall's bookcase in the farthest corner of the sitting room. Draco caught it with the ease of a former Seeker and took a nearly threatening step towards the hairnetted woman.

He just about shoved the book into her face. “Here, read for yourself. The chapter on The Battle of Hogwarts.”

She pursed her lips. “I don't need to read about it, Mr. Malfoy, I was there.”

“So was I. And I saw Potter beat him. Just as I saw Potter being spirited away by The Hunt tonight. If you don't believe me, look it up.”

Tentatively, the headmistress took the book and, after a silent moment of mutual staring, she opened it and skimmed the index for the right part.

“Here it is:  
_'...was Lord Voldemort (also known as the Dark Lord, You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Tom Riddle II) killed in a final duel in the Great Hall in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In the aftermath of the battle...'_  
That's it. There's nothing here about a ….Pitty?”

“Potter. Let me see that,” Draco held out a hand and, a second later, added a quick, “please.”

His fingers followed the words while his eyes darted rapidly from line to line. No Potter. Not a single word about him. In fact, the text made it seem as if no one in particular was responsible for the Dark Lord's downfall. It was as if all of that had just _happened_.

Draco shut the book with a thud and found worried, yet curious eyes watching him.

“Mr. Malfoy, if I may–“

“No. I'm sorry, Prof– Headmistress, but this one seems a bit outdated. _Accio The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts! Accio Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century!”_ How lucky that Headmistress McGonagall liked to read and had her own private collection at hand in her chambers.

Draco handed her one of the volumes (“Look for _Har-ry Pot-ter_ ,” he enunciated) and opened the other one himself. He grew increasingly frustrated. Nothing. Potter's name was nowhere mentioned; neither in the newer section about this year's events nor in the older one about the happenings seventeen years ago.

“No Piotr in this one either,” said the headmistress.

“Potter,” Draco auto-corrected.

“Now, why was it again we were looking for this... person?” Headmistress McGonagall pushed her square glasses up her nose and Draco suppressed a frustrated groan.

_“Because–”_

A knock on the door interrupted him mid-sentence. Filius Flitwick popped his head in, dangling a bottle of wine and two long-stemmed glasses in one hand. “Good evening, Minerva! I thought you might be up for a nightcap? Oh! Mr. Malfoy, you're here, too? How lovely! Merry Christmas!”

Professor Flitwick seemed to have had some ‘nightcaps’ on his own already, since his overly cheerful face spotted ruddy cheeks and slightly unfocused eyes.

Draco jumped at the opportunity. “Professor! Good that you're here. Potter is in trouble!” He held his breath.

“Potter? What potter?” the small man blinked owlishly.

“The one and only? Harry Potter who finished off the Dark Lord in The Battle of Hogwarts?”

“Finished off the Dark Lord?” Parrot number three. “No, that can't be right. I was a witness when that happened and it was not this... Puttel...you mentioned.”

“Potter!” spit Draco more vehemently than intended.

What was it with them that they couldn't even remember Potter's stupid name for five minutes? Potter, Potter. Wasn't so hard now, was it?

He ground his teeth. “Regardless, Potter – someone – has been abducted by The Wild Hunt and we need to rescue him!”

There was a moment of silence during which Draco looked desperately between the two teachers, hoping that, even if they mysteriously couldn't quite recall Potter, they would at least want to save a person in need of help.

“The Wild Hunt?” Professor Flitwick repeated. “Oh, that's just a myth.”

“Argh!” Draco threw his hands in the air and turned on his heels to leave the cosy living chambers. This was no use.

***

Draco stormed through the deserted halls of Hogwarts. He was fuming and also deeply shaken. The old nursery rhyme about The Wild Hunt that his mother used to sooth him with when he was frightened by thunder as a child, was playing on repeat in his head. Sure, one said that there was a grain of truth in every myth, but this? If he hadn't been there himself, he wouldn't have believed it either that they could just vanish a person's entire existence.

Potter, that idiot! Why didn't he ever listen? Why did he have to look? Draco huffed and shook his head. Because Potter was a bloody curious Gryffindor, that's why. And as such, he could very well save himself. Hadn't he done so numerous times in the past already? Why should Draco even bother?

Really, though, why should he? Draco frowned. It wasn't as if he would particularly miss Potter's annoying presence. Neither would anyone else, now that they didn't remember him anymore. Therefore, no one could blame Draco for not having done anything about it. Seriously, why bother? Let Potter sort this one out himself.

Draco had reached the Entrance Hall and made a face; Patchers weren't supposed to use the official entries, especially not after curfew. Oh, well. Just this once.

He crossed the closed double doors to the Great Hall, slowed and finally stopped in front of them. He suddenly felt cold trickling into the heat that had been caused by the whole Potter business. Draco always got chills when he passed here. Carefully, with a measured gesture, he reached out to touch the left of the two copper plaques fixed to both sides of the heavy portal. His fingers traced the name, _Vincent Crabbe_. As always.

Draco swallowed. If Potter hadn't come for him, back in the Room of Requirement, he would have burned. Like Vincent.

He owed Potter. He owed him for so many things.

It wasn't just that, though. Draco turned around to face the opposite wall, finding it empty. No sign of the hilariously hideous portrait of a goofy-faced Potter that the thankful wizarding community had insisted on hanging there at the re-opening celebrations in August.

Remembering Potter's pained look at the unveiling made Draco crack a smile. The Saviour had looked so embarrassed. As a consequence he had proceeded in hiding out at the Quidditch pitch... with Draco as his only company. Somehow, working together during the summer had brought them a smidge closer. Even though Draco would never admit it but maybe, just maybe, he would miss Potter after all. A tiny bit. Only for the banter, of course.

Draco gazed thoughtfully back at the plaques. These were the names of Hogwarts' Fallen Fifty that had died in The Battle.

How many more would have had to die if not for Potter? Draco felt determination bubbling up inside him.

The more important question now was, how to get him back.

Draco’s footsteps resumed, echoing on the walls. He briefly considered heading back towards the library to search Potter's name in the books there, but he realised that if Potter wasn't in McGonagall's books, he likely wasn't in any books at all.

Instead he stepped outside into a peaceful winter wonderland. His breath puffed white clouds in front of his face. It was bitterly cold although the wind had died down completely. Now there was only a starry sky and innocently glittering snow, as if nothing had happened at all.

Draco picked up his line of thought as he started down the barely visible path that led off the grounds.

So, what now? Where could he go to find assistance if no one recalled the person they were supposed to help?

The Ministry? Draco wrinkled his nose. Going to the Aurors with a missing person's case would be the normal thing to do. Although in Draco's case, there was a fair chance they'd rather lock _him_ up than listen to his seemingly crazy story about a visitation from a nursery rhyme stealing away a man no one was able to remember. Also, it was Christmas Day and most likely everyone was at home with their families.

Potter had no family or at least no family that could help find him. Them being Muggles and all.

So that left... the Weasleys as Potter's more or less adopted family. Goddammit.

Draco bent his steps toward the gates of Hogwarts and after finally reaching their pillars topped with winged boars, slightly breathless and very unsure about what he was about to do, he Apparated with a loud crack.

***

The Burrow looked exactly like Draco always imagined it: small, crooked and currently overflowing with Christmas decorations. All windows were alight with a warm glow and even through the closed door, Draco could hear the last notes of _A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love_ as well as the sound of animated conversation and laughter. It was such a happy and welcoming sound.

Draco swallowed hard. He'd been standing outside for almost two full minutes now, not daring to knock. But he had to. For Potter.

“Here goes nothing,” Draco muttered and rapped on the door.

For a moment it seemed as though nobody heard him, but then quick footsteps became audible, increasing in volume as they approached the door.

“Merry Christmas!” sounded a cheerful voice as the door was being opened with enthusiasm.

It was Potter's Weasel, whose face fell. Of course, he had been expecting someone else. Anyone else. “Malfoy?!”

“Hullo, Weasley,” Draco said evenly, refraining from using the spiteful nickname, “may I have a word with you?” If anyone remembered Potter, it would be his best friend, surely.

The redhead gaped at him as if Draco had just sprouted wings, and remained like that unblinkingly until his sister came up from behind, throwing an arm around the Weasel's shoulders. “Who is– What do _you_ want?”

“He...he wants a word...” her brother supplied faintly, still looking utterly shocked.

His sister however quickly found her wits again and a storm cloud gathered in her face. “How _dare_ you? How dare you come to our home! On Christmas! _Vespertilio!_ ”

Draco instinctively ducked away as the Bat-Bogey Hex barely missed him by a hair. His hand flew to his wand and he was halfway done producing a counter-hex when he remembered the reason for his being here. So instead he hastily took cover behind a bearded scarecrow, which was dressed in red velvet the way Muggles liked to clothe during Yuletide, standing askew in the middle of the yard. It wouldn't do to duel the family he was hoping to get help from.

“I just want to talk!” he yelled from the back of his makeshift barricade while spells kept flying his way. Draco didn't even know why exactly this girl was so angry at him. Of course, there were lots of different reasons coming to mind, but nothing recent. He hadn't seen her in months and couldn't even recall the last time they exchanged words.

“I give you 'talk', you bastard!” Every sentence was accentuated by a hex. “Let's talk about scarred Bill! Or poisoned Ron! Or tortured Hermione! Or – or F-Fred... you, you assh–!”

“GINEVRA WEASLEY! You better _not_ finish that word!” sounded the voice of a sturdy woman through the night. She had appeared in the door frame presumably to see what the ruckus was all about.

In the sudden silence that followed, Draco could hear harsh, female sobs. It seemed like Potter had been right with his assessment of the household's emotional state: Everyone tried their best to keep it in and just be happy during the holidays. Draco's unforeseen arrival had tipped the scales though and now he was on the receiving end of outpouring feelings that weren't completely directed at him.

Draco sighed and took a deep breath. He had been in similar situations before. It was one of the reasons he had decided to avoid social gatherings lately.

He smoothed down his robes and emerged from his hiding spot. “Good evening, Mrs. Weasley. I'm sorry to intrude at such a late hour but I need to discuss something with,” he gestured towards the still-staring Weasel now plastered with a quivering mess of girl, “your son.” Pause. “And Granger. If she's here,” he added in an afterthought.

More silence.

“It's rather cold out tonight, isn't it? Would you like to come in?” Mrs. Weasley's tone had reverted back to its usual warmth. She sounded like the mother Draco had caught sight of at Platform 9¾ occasionally and he was now quite surprised to be the recipient of that friendly voice.

He hesitated only a second then straightened his back. “Yes, that would be very kind of you,” he said, proceeding in stepping in between the three Weasleys and into the fox den.

The first thing Draco noticed when he entered the kitchen was the delicious smell of festive roast. It hit him with an unexpected wave of nostalgia: memories of childhood Christmases bubbling up to the surface of his mind. He quickly blinked them away. Now was not the time to reminisce. Even though his stomach growled a bit and reminded him that he hadn't had a proper meal all day, that could wait, too.

“Through here,” said Mother Weasley and gestured for Draco and her children to follow her into the living room that was crammed with a giant live fir tree (decorated with way too many blinking fairy lights for Draco's taste) and buckets of redheads dispersed on various mismatched furniture.

“Everyone, we have a guest.”

“Oh,” Mr. Weasley's eyebrows shot up when he assessed 'the guest' hovering in the doorway. They climbed even higher when the Weasel and his puffy-eyed sister pushed past Draco. “Er...”

Draco scanned the room. Right in front of him, two older gingers and that former Beauxbatons champion girl on a worn couch looked at him curiously. Meanwhile, his welcoming committee had split up: with Mrs. Weasley joining her husband on a love seat directly under the tree to the left while the other two sat down by the fire to the right, mixing in with a circle of people apparently in the middle of a game of Exploding Snap. Draco had never bothered to learn their names, but there was the surviving twin and that stuck-up ex-Head Boy. As well as one bushy-haired Hermione Granger. Oh goody.

Ten pairs of eyes were on Draco and suddenly he felt very hot. He cleared his throat. “Um, so...” Now that he had had time to think things through, he wasn't all that frantic anymore. “I'm sorry for coming unannounced, but I have a rather urgent matter that I need to speak about with,” he glanced towards the Weasel and Granger and then took in the whole room, making a decision, “all of you, actually: Not an hour ago, The Wild Hunt seized Potter from the Hogwarts grounds.” He waited anticipatorily. No reaction, okay. Plan B. “What I mean is, _someone_ was abducted and I need your help to get him back.”

“Someone was abducted? Who?” came cries from all corners of the room.

“Potter,” Draco tried.

“A potter? In Hogwarts? What would they need a potter for?” disdained Stuck-Up.

Draco couldn't help but roll his eyes. Why did Potter have to have a descriptive surname? No one would mistake _Malfoy_ for a job title. “It's _Potter_. That's his name.”

Stuck-Up waved the answer away. “Whatever.”

“The question remains, why would anyone be abducted from Hogwarts?” cut in the twin, narrowing his eyes. “Is this a joke, Malfoy? Because I swear, if it is–“

“It's not a joke! He's really in trouble!”

“Why not go to the Aurors then? What do you want from _us_?” Apparently the Weasley girl had recovered, since she now glared at Draco.

“It's complicated. The Aurors wouldn't believe me, because, you see, The Wild Hunt has taken him. Him and all memories of him. You don't remember but he's your friend. You're close like family,” Draco ran a hand through his hair. This wasn't going well. “Do you think otherwise I would have come here of all places? Don't you consider that I know you all hate me? I just– he...he needs saving! That's what you do, right? So, save him!”

Suddenly two big owls and a tiny one fluttered from the top of the Christmas tree with indignant hoots and shot out the living room door past Draco. The tiny owl messing up several red hairdos in the process. All the raised voices in the room must have woken them.

“Argh, Pig!” _Pig?_ Draco had never seen anything that looked less like a pig. He shelved that thought. Not important.

Picking up the discussion, the twin said doubtfully, “If this Patty,” (“Potter.”) “is our friend like you said then why was he with _you_ on Christmas and why would you care what happened to _our_ friend? This is all bullshit,” (“George, language!”) “and I don't believe a word coming out of your mouth, _Malfoy_.” He crossed his arms in front of his body and glared defiantly.

Draco was close to bursting into hysterical laughter. What had he expected? He pushed his rising panic down.

“He _was_ here. Today. He just,” Draco faltered for a moment, “had something to finish at the castle. Also, he wasn't _with me_. We just ran into each other. But that's not what matters. What matters is that he needs rescuing.” He felt faint all of sudden. “Please,” he added almost inaudible.

“That's the first time I've ever heard you say 'please',” Granger piped up thoughtfully. “Okay, let's hear him out, shall we? It won't hurt, right?”

“Yeah, well, he's already ruined the mood,” grumbled the Weasel. “Aren't you glad now that you decided not to go with your parents to visit their Australian friends? Who wants Christmas on the beach when they can have Malfoy on a nonsense-spouting spree?”

“Hermione is right.” The wild-looking Weasley straight ahead, whose jumper was decorated with a fire-spewing dragon, ignored the Weasel's comment and looked expectantly at Draco. “Start from the beginning. Who was abducted? Where? When? Why? And, maybe most importantly, by whom?”

Draco dipped his head at him thankfully, “Alright, again from the top: His name is Harry Potter. He’s 18 years old. He was snatched from the Hogwarts grounds, near the southern walls tonight close to midnight. As to why I can only guess: Because he looked illicitly at The Wild Hunt. It is they who have taken him.”

“The Wild Hunt... isn't that a children's tale?” mused Wild-One. “Mum, Dad, you told us the story when we were younger, didn't you? How did that go?”

Father Weasley knit his eyebrows together. “ _'Listen to me or The Wild Hunt will be your undoing?'_ Something like that. I'm sorry, it's been too long. We sang those rhymes to you when you were but babes.”

“ _'Child, oh child, just heed my story! If you won't now, you will be sorry. When comes the winter with snow and ice, close your windows and close your eyes! Or The Hunt, The Hunt will be your demise’_ ,” Draco recited which earned him several odd looks from the assembled party. And he hadn't even sung them to a tune. He blushed ever so slightly. “Ahem, so, what I think happened is that Potter didn't close his eyes and looked at The Hunt instead, which is why he got spirited away.”

“Zat actually sounds reasonable. We know zat tale in France, too. La Chasse Aérienne, c'est ça, non? If you spy at ze riders you will be punished,” Beauxbatons nodded in agreement with her words. “It's possible. _But!_ Not coming from zis boy!” Suddenly her eyes were blazing. “Don't you all forget: 'e is ze reason my Bill got 'urt like zis! I won't trust anything 'e says!”

There was approving murmuring floating through the room.

“Hush, chérie. That is old news,” her husband (Draco was vaguely remembering having heard of the union) leaned closer towards her and placed a gentle kiss on her temple, a lone earring catching the glow of the fireplace for a second, lighting up his scarred face. Draco had to look away. “Besides, didn't you say I look even more handsome like this?” There was snickering and the air in the room relaxed with people letting go of the sudden tenseness.

Everyone but Draco.

Beauxbatons was right. And the Weasley girl was right. Draco had done so many terrible things to this family. What reason should they have to listen to any story he told them?

He felt guilty and the guilt made him queasy. How many times had he picked up a quill to write out an apology note? Yet, he'd never done it. He couldn't find the words. Right now was not the best moment though. He let it go and cleared his throat. “So, anyway, that's the situation. Now, if any of you have a good idea as to where to look to get him back?”

“Get who back?” Mother Weasley looked confused.

“Potter,” said Draco more patiently than he felt.

“Right....Malfoy, why are you here again?” the Weasel's face was scrunched up in thought. It looked right painful. “What were we talking about?”

Draco opened his mouth. This would be a long night. He had had an inkling before, but now it seemed certain that people forgot about Potter almost the second they heard about him. Furthermore, they had trouble keeping the thread of a conversation about The Wild Hunt.

“Ah, yes! We were talking about old fairy tales, weren't we? Well my favourite story has always been _Babbitty Rabbitty and–_ “

“No,” Draco cut in, “we were talking about getting your best friend Potter back from The Wild Hunt.”

The Weasel blinked. “My best friend Poover?”

“Potter,” sighed Draco.

“We had forgotten about him again, hadn't we?” Granger tapped her finger to her chin. “He is eradicated from our memory over and over, isn't he? That... Potty?” Close. Also, hilarious.

“Potter.”

“So why is it you don't forget him?” Wild-One was sharper than he looked.

Draco started. He hadn't thought about that yet.

“See? I told you – he's making it up to mock us,” the twin spat venomously.

“I'm not. I think...yes, I think maybe _I'm_ the only one who remembers Potter because I was with him when it happened. That is the only logical explanation.”

“When what happened?” Stuck-Up wrinkled his nose at Draco. “Really, Malfoy, start making sense, will you?”

Suppressing a groan, Draco faced the sitting circle. “When Potter was stolen.”

“Who?” Earring interjected, briefly pausing his nuzzling of Beauxbatons' pretty neck.

“Potter,” Draco felt near tears.

This wasn't working. He might have been able to make them believe his story about The Hunt but they couldn't even remember Potter long enough to hold a conversation, how could they ever help him? He had to try though.

“Again–“

Bong bong. Somewhere in the house sounded a clock, indicating that it was 1 a.m. in the morning. There was a wave of stretching and yawning going around the room.

“I could do with a late night snack,” announced the Weasel, putting an arm around Granger. Right, Potter had mentioned that they were going out now. Weird.

“You mean _early morning_ snack, Ron. Though I feel a bit peckish myself,” agreed Mr. Weasley with a smirk.

“Then how about another helping of pudding? Who wants some?” Mrs. Weasley was already on her way towards the kitchen and didn't even count the unanimously up-shooting hands. She paused in the doorway. “Would you like some as well?” she smiled at Draco.

“Before that – about Potter...” He faltered. Mother Weasley kept smiling at Draco in the way of the oblivious. Draco gave up. “No, thank you. I must be going, I think.”

“Alright, it _is_ awfully late already, isn't it?” She passed by him and left Draco standing, forlornly looking at a room full of redheaded people who had resumed their conversation from before his arrival and were now once again completely unaware of the fact that there should be a mop of black hair sitting among them.

“Goodbye,” he choked awkwardly into the group and left, glimpsing some of the heads turning his way and some of the faces furrowing their brows. One especially.

Draco felt tears burning in his throat. He needed to get out, get home to his gatehouse and clear his head. But he should be so lucky as to escape quietly.

“Here, take this for the way. You must feel lonely with your parents in France,” the Weasley matriarch held out something that looked like a huge package of assorted foods. “Merry Christmas.”

Merry Christmas. Draco gulped. He hadn't been able to tell Potter 'Merry Christmas' back then. What if he never got a chance again? He dug his nails into his palm and reached for the offered bundle with the other hand.

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. Merry…” he just couldn’t. “Happy holidays.”

When Draco turned away to leave The Burrow he felt the first hot drops spilling down his cheeks while Mother Weasley started to put servings of pudding onto various plates, humming _Carol of the Bells_ in the foxes' kitchen. 

***

Draco carefully put the care packet on his desk before collapsing into a chair and slamming his arms onto the tabletop. He buried his face in the crooks, exhaustion washing over him.

The whole day he had been fixing things at Hogwarts, trying to escape his self-imposed loneliness that he had procured by turning down his parents' invitation to join them in France as well as his friends' proposal for a Christmas get-together. He just felt unable to be festive when the memories of last year's winter holidays in a house full of cold-blooded sadists were still too fresh.

A mix of sweet and savoury smells slowly made its way to the forefront of Draco's consciousness. He lifted his gaze and contemplated rifling through the parcel of food.

But then he shook his head. No, Potter didn't get to have any snacks either. And if their roles were reversed, Draco just knew that Potter would be already shouting it from the rooftops that Malfoy had vanished. Because that's who the Scarhead was, someone who would put others' needs before his own. Which was exactly the reason Draco had to bring the idiot back: So Draco could make fun of Potter's stupid selflessness.

Therefore, a plan had to be made!

Draco pushed his chair back and started pacing the floor. Whatever he would do, he would have to do it alone since the recent attempts had shown that no one besides Draco was able to keep memories of Potter long enough to help. So, no backup.

All traces of Potter seemed to have been eradicated which meant looking for guidance in books was out of the question, at least where The Boy Who Lived was concerned.

Draco pulled at his bottom lip. Although the chances were slim, the nursery rhyme about The Wild Hunt _did_ exist. So that meant there had to be more – records about the lore, maybe even precedent. He had to make a trip back to Hogwarts tomorrow, see if there was anything to be found in the library.

For now though... Draco sat down again and searched in the top drawer of his desk until his hand touched a little notebook. It was a pretty, gold-adorned piece. He'd never had any use for it. But now it was exactly what he needed.

He dipped his quill into the ink bottle, hovered over the first page for a moment and then started writing:  


- _black bird's nest, green eyes, ugly glasses, lightning bolt_

\- _insufferable, annoying, stubborn, stupidly brave, nauseatingly loyal, moderately clever_

\- _no fashion sense_

\- _passable Quidditch player_

\- _pants at Potions_

\- _…_

The list went on and on. Everything and anything Draco could recall about Potter and his life landed on the expensive, handmade paper of the journal. If there were no books about the Chosen One anymore, someone just had to write one (maybe, once he got Potter back, Draco could sell it to the _Daily Prophet_ ). So he diligently got to work.

***

Draco woke with a start.

His back hurt and he was stiff all over. When he rubbed the sleep off his face with ink stained fingers, he could feel the indents left by miscellaneous writing utensils which lay spread across the blank pages of a notebook. Bloody hell, he must have fallen asleep at the desk last night.

Draco yawned and his eyes fell onto the still untouched stack of goodies in front of him. Breakfast time!

But maybe some strong black tea first.

His current residence wasn't very big, so Draco only needed a few steps into the adjacent kitchenette. He whooshed his wand to get the tea making started and frowned a bit. Who would have thought there would come the day that the heir of the Malfoy name had a home-cooked Weasley meal for breakfast.

He cocked his head. Why did he go to The Burrow again? Yesterday, when he had decided to avoid any festivities, he'd somehow ended up spending an hour with the Weasel and his family. But whyever would Draco do that? His brain started to hurt and he pushed the thought aside. It wasn't important now, was it? As long as there was food. And Merlin, was he hungry!

Balancing the hot beverage and an array of edibles on a tray, Draco went back to the study-slash-living-room and sat down at the desk. Though he'd been living here for months now, the room looked still rather uninhabited, with very little furniture in it.

While he enjoyed cold roast and mashed potatoes (Mother Weasley could _cook_!), he cleared up the tabletop with one hand. Picking up the small notebook, Draco knit his brows. Had he been writing something last night? He thumped through the pages but there was nothing, just milky white blankness.

Something wasn't right. Draco knew it, just... just he couldn't quite catch it. Something about the journal...

Engrossed in thought, he reached for the teapot to top his cup up and stopped mid-movement, intensely looking at the china. The teapot. The pot. ... _Potter_!

Draco jumped up as though stung by a bee. Potter! He had nearly forgotten about Potter! How could Draco have been so careless as to... his eyes snapped to the book and he hoicked it up. Empty pages. Blank! All of them!

He slumped down. Staring disbelieving at the non-writing where he now remembered with crystal clarity to have penned essays and essays of Potter anecdotes the night before.

This wasn't real. He couldn't even keep a record of Potter? Draco had barely managed to remember the Scarhead this morning. How could he make sure not to forget him tomorrow or the day after?

Draco tore at his hair and was about to spiral into a full-blown meltdown when there was a sharp rapping on the front door.

He blinked. No one ever came here. Possibly he'd only imagined it in his state of panic.

Knock knock.

Not his imagination then. Great.

Draco exhaled slowly while smoothing his loose strands with one hand. Whoever it was they didn't need to know about his inner crisis. He put on his poker face and went to open the door.

Within seconds, his indifferent mask crashed splintering to the floor, leaving him gaping at no other than Hermione Granger and a grumpy looking Weasel hidden half behind her.

“I, I, I, you!” Draco spluttered.

“Good morning to you, too, Malfoy,” was the girl's reply and she made to push past him, her boyfriend in tow, as if Draco had invited them in instead of producing incoherent stammering.

Having two thirds of the Golden Trio standing in his home was surreal. It must have felt like that for the Weasleys seeing Draco in their living room the day before.

“Er,” Draco cleared his throat, “so, what brings you here?”

Although the Weasel took a defiant stance, it was Granger that answered, “We came to help.”

“To help?” echoed Draco confused. “To help with what?”

“With whatever it is that made you come to The Burrow last night,” said Granger and started unlooping her red and gold Gryffindor scarf from around her neck. “None of us can remember clearly, but it must have been something big if you came to _us_. And it has something to do with some sort of memory charm.”

“How do you know that?” A sceptical part of Draco still refused to hope that– no.

Granger watched him thoughtfully for a moment. “When Voldemort,” (Draco flinched.) “took over, I put a spell on my parents, remodelling their memories so that they would forget me and emigrate to Australia. I wanted to keep them safe from persecution. Still, even though I reverted the effect, they sometimes lapse back into their fake identities, so I've been reading up on memory magic. That is why I recognized the signs.”

Draco stared at her wide-eyed, too stunned to say anything.

“Look, do you want our help or not?” The ginger had stopped his impatient shifting and crossed his arms before his chest. “It's not like we have nothing better to do.”

The words were almost hostile and yet a wave of relief flooded Draco. They would help. He wasn't alone in this anymore.

“Much obliged, Weasel. I shall take you up on that offer.”

The redhead snorted. “Why don't you start by filling us in, _Ferret_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
>  _“Draco’s Theme”_ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6YDQEQHXaA  
> Dino Meneghin - If you need it so badly
> 
> I think it's when Draco's self-reflecting. Thoughtful and melancholic.  
> Picking up happy tunes when he thinks he's found something...  
> ...and regressing back to sad when it doesn't work.
> 
>  **Translations** :  
>  _Vespertilio!_ = bat (Latin)  
>  _"La Chasse Aérienne, c'est ça, non?"_ = "The airborne hunt, it's that, right?" (French)  
>  _chérie_ = darling (French)


	4. Chapter 3: Their joyful tone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to my magnificent beta, umbrellaless22! Thank you for your dedication!

Noise. That was the first thing the young man registered, even before opening his eyes. He listened for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. What had happened to him? Apparently he was lying on a cold, hard surface and was surrounded by people whose loud talking and singing was somewhat topsy-turvy. 

Then there was the feeling like something or someone was constantly picking gently at his head. 

He fluttered his eyelashes, sitting up. The soundscape seemed to intensify and his head made a valiant effort at exploding from sudden pain. He groaned and rubbed his hands over his eyes to shut out the colourful scenery spread out around him: There were people in oddest apparel sitting, standing, dancing, chatting and laughing in every direction, yet they seemed to take no notice of him. His fingers met resistance and he bent his brows when he fumbled for the strange thing on his face. Ah, yes, glasses, he wore glasses. Which made sense since the moment he took them off, the whole eccentric mass of characters turned blurry in the misty morning light. 

He was distracted by a renewed tapping, this time on his hand. The spectacle-wearer looked down to find a snowy owl hooting softly while sitting next to him on the equally snowy ground. Amber eyes blinked at him and he had the inexplicable feeling that he had seen this bird before. 

“I know you.” It wasn't a question. The owl tipped its head to the other side and kept looking at him, its gaze intense and somewhat expectant. He tentatively lifted a hand and to pet the bird. “I know you.” Just from where, he couldn't say.

“What's your name now, hm?” The owl flapped its wings. “How about I give you one, would you like that?” He received a tender nip on his index finger. “Alright. So are you a girl or a boy? Er, I think girl.” An affirmative chirp. “Right, so.....how about...Snowdrop?” Snowdrop seemed delighted and rubbed her head affectionately on the boy's biceps.

“Well, good. Now that we figured out your name, how about you help me find mine? I seem to have misplaced it, along with pretty much any information about myself.” He burrowed one hand in his own unruly black hair and the other in Snowdrop's feathers. “Must've hit my head quite badly.”

The snowy owl gave him a critical stare and made for his shoulder, where she perched in a dignified manner and started picking at her new friend's jumper which was peeking out from beneath his winter robes. He squinted at his front. There, in golden embroidery on scarlet background was one word: Harry. 

“Harry, huh?” said the boy who was most possibly called Harry. “I can live with that.”

“Well, you certainly won't have to very long,” pronounced a crisp voice from behind him.

Harry spun around, dislodging Snowdrop in the movement. 

A most outlandish looking woman gazed down at him, her clothes rustling lightly in the icy breeze. Her physique was somewhat small (Harry guessed he would be taller than her when standing), yet her sheer presence was so humongous that it drowned out everything else around her. Even the sounds seemed to dim while Harry's gaze travelled upwards: from half-boots that looked overgrown by moss, over a pure-white Tracht dress and an equally white apron with a somewhat ragged hem under an alabaster fur coat with gilt rimming, up to her cow horns and leafy crown on her silvery hair, falling down to her waist which was belted with an iron chain. Her face was old and wrinkly with a prominent bird-like nose, yet her eyes seemed almost glowing and drew Harry in, even more so than her iron crescent moon maang tikka. She could have been mistaken for a snowwoman in all her whiteness if not for the pitch-black wings sprouting from her back. 

Harry shivered and it wasn't because of the cold seeping into his body from the snow-covered ground. There was something about this... being... something that touched his innermost core in a way he couldn't describe. Only that he knew without asking that she was oh so powerful and old, no ancient, and that he better not anger her. Yet there was also a confusing softness to her that made him feel something akin to hope. She felt like winter and spring – and she was still looking at him.

“Er, hello,” Harry hazarded, “were you talking to me?”

Her colourless, gleaming eyes bore into him. “Indeed I was, new face.”

“Harry,” said Harry.

“I don't think so,” was the unperturbed reply. “We will find you a better name in no time. But you may call me Holle today.”

Harry was a bit confused. Her words made no sense to him. “Today?” he asked.

The crone chuckled. “Yes, today I'm Holle. Holle who brought you a horse.” 

It was only then that Harry noticed the old woman was accompanied by a pale palomino. Holle's aura (or whatever one could call it) really had suppressed all her surroundings; even a horse 16 hands high. 

Harry cleared his throat. “I'm not sure I understand. See, I seem to have some problems with remembering correctly. Maybe you could help me by telling me where we are, how we got here and how we know each other? Oh, and also, why you want to give me a horse.”

Holle huffed in annoyance. “Sure, I could do that, but I don't have all day to babysit, lad. We decided you'll be a rider, so you need a horse. Figure the rest out yourself!” With that she thrust the reins into Harry's unprepared hands, her fingers cold as ice, and turned to leave. She had barely taken a step though, when she suddenly spun around as with an afterthought and for the bat of an eye Harry could've sworn her face was young and beautiful. “Harry, you say....Here, I think this belongs to you, Master Harry,” she mocked. Next she plucked the floral wreath from her head and shoved in onto Harry's and before the newly crowned boy could utter more than a surprised stutter, she had spread her wings and flown away.

Harry stared after her, barely noticing that the moment she had left, the noises around him had picked up again and colours had grown brighter once more. 

Snowdrop landed back on his shoulder, nibbling lovingly at his left ear, while his unnamed new companion huffed warm air into his right one. 

Harry shook his head. What _was_ going on? He went from no memory to two pets and a flower chaplet. What a day this was. 

The horse showed interest in Harry's new laurels and he had to bend his neck a bit to get out of reach, but the palomino was quicker and snatched a leaf from the crown. “Hey, stop it! Geez, you're fast as lightning. Oh, that's what we're going to call you, boy – Lightning!” Lightning didn't acknowledge his new name at all and continued to try and fish leaves from Harry's head with his horse tongue. 

“Okay, that's enough.” Harry took the flower spray off with the intention of hiding it behind his back. He stopped halfway through, however, and just looked at the thing. It was a wreath with privet as its base, decorated with dozens of white lilies and one single petunia in the middle, as well as a grain of wheat and a stinging nettle on one side. But the thing that really caught Harry's attention was the fact that the flower circlet was glowing in an inner, soft light. 

Glowing just like – he turned to face Snowdrop on his shoulder (while putting out his hand so that Lightning couldn't steal more plants) and certainly, the owl was also illuminated by this strange shine. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realised that he had noticed it before, he had just been too preoccupied with other things. He looked at Lightning, yet, despite his luminous name, the horse was simply a horse trying to eat Harry's present.

He sighed and placed the crown back on his head. All this was just too weird. He needed to get out of wherever this was. And the best way to do that, was through. So Harry, his owl on his shoulder, started to stir his horse (with a stern look: “NO, Lightning!”) among the surrounding people.

There were mixed groups of odd folk, each huddled around a little camp fire, strewn in a wide ring around Harry's waking place. The gathered persons came in different shapes and sizes, but they all had in common that they were loud and boisterous, easily changing circles while Harry, Snowdrop and Lightning tried weaving their way through them, their horses and carts. 

Music and laughter was filling the chilly morning air and Harry found his eyes darting quickly this way and that trying to take everything in at once. He was fascinated as well as freaked out. 

To his left a group of giggling nuns surrounded a priest who was apparently in the middle of telling a saucy joke, while to his right a band of little people tried to topple a giant of a man to the raucous guffaws of a surrounding audience of barely clad spectators. As he was watching, Harry was jostled against by a Middle Agey knight in full body armour hiccuping an excuse when he swayed, wine cup in hand, on towards another bonfire. That one was encircled by men and women in masks listening to a story a little girl in pig-tails was telling from the back of a big pig. On the other side, a crowd had formed around a colourful array of musicians dressed in different types of soldier uniforms (new and dated) playing cheerful tunes. Harry found himself humming along.

All that whilst animals, ranging from dogs and cats over goats, lizards, chickens, snakes, polecats, cows, toads, chamoises to bears (nobody seemed to mind but Harry carefully avoided _those_ ), ran criss-cross through the assembly with a bunch of birds following their example overhead.

The chaos and racket was just too much for Harry's still somewhat hurting head. He wanted to join but at the same time wanted to be somewhere more quiet to clear his thoughts and find out where he was – and maybe more importantly, who. 

He fumbled his way to the fringe of the party and finally let out a breath when he squeezed out in between dancing figures, finding himself at last alone-ish at the bank of an almost circular pond, glowing in the same light as his laurels and Snowdrop. Here, close to the midnight blue water, the noises seemed to have moved away a bit. Only soft chimes of bells (which oddly enough seemed to be coming from inside the pond) were heard now and made room for fresh winter air to fill his lungs and thoughts his head. Harry eyed his surroundings. He saw snowy mountains encircling the water in a wide round on all sides. There were no visible paths that could have led out of the dale. 

How did all these people with their flock and wains manage to get in here? And how on earth would _he_ get out? 

A thought struck him. Maybe not on earth... His gaze wandered upwards and soon found itself entangled in dark storm clouds, hanging low overhead and, while alight with an occasional bolt, gently dropping snowflakes onto Harry's raised face. No, flying in a storm would be crazy. There had to be another way.

He half-heartedly turned back to the still partying crowd. He had to ask someone in there. But who? 

The question became superfluous.

“Hey, you!” a cheerful voice to his right made Harry jump. “Yes, you! Good to see you again!”

And before Harry could as much as blink, a strong arm had wound its way around his shoulders, flushing Snowdrop away and he suddenly found himself face to freckled face with a red-haired stranger whose wardrobe was made of mismatching pieces in clashing colours. 

“Er, do I know you?” Harry choked as the young man enthusiastically strangle-dragged him along, back into the centre of the crowd. 

“Sort of,” was the chipper reply.

“Don't people here know how to answer questions in a non-confusing way?” Harry had grappled himself mostly free from the other's tight grip and bobbed alongside him, still holding Lightning's reins. 

The ginger threw his head back and laughed heartily. “I knew I liked you. Hey, gang, look who I found! It's our good friend –“ here he looked at Harry expectantly. 

“Harry,” grumbled Harry, rubbing his now armless neck.

“– Harry!” announced his companion. Then he frowned. “That's a boring name. We will have to find you another one. How about –“

“Now, hold on! I don't even know _your_ name yet!” After the short reprieve at the pond's shore, Harry felt once again overwhelmed by the turn of unexpected events following in quick succession.

“That's right, Half! Let the boy breathe, you child.” Spoken with a wink had a pale, barefooted girl in a lavender toga sitting at one of the many camp fires. Her hair was partially braided in a cute up-do with daffodils sticking in all the right places and she was leaning her back onto a black horse with fiery eyes which was bizarrely wearing a hairband with fluffy rabbit ears. 

The girl giggled following Harry's gaze. She petted the horse. “This is Binky,” her fingertips brushed over her face absent-mindedly, eyes hardening, “and I'm Wolfe.” 

Harry thought that Wolfe could have been pretty if it hadn't been for the half-circle of angry red teeth mark covering her right cheek from brow to jaw and the thick, ropey scars covering her bare arm collarbone to elbow.

“Here! You can sit here, here with me!” piped a tiny boy at the fire up, gesturing wildly to get Harry's attention and patting the ground between his jeans-clad legs and two dozing horses, one brown, one chestnut. 

When Harry didn't immediately make a move to come over, the excited youth jumped up and grabbed his hand “Do _you_ think your name is boring? Are you hungry? Do you like bonfires?” he rattled off while pulling. “The brown one is mine. Her name is Grapes, because she likes grapes. And that is Half's horse, Gee.”

Since the chatterbox wasn't all that strong, Harry had a few moments to survey him: He had fair skin, mouse-brown hair and equally brown eyes shining from behind a hand-painted mask that covered the upper half of his face and showed a breathtaking landscape. 

Harry let himself be tugged down eventually and in the fire's light, he could finally read the writing printed across the masked boy's grey T-shirt: _When I have a camera in my hand, I know no fear_. 

“That's why we call him BraveHeart,” informed the redhead, nodding at BraveHeart's chest and plopping down next to Harry. “I'm Half, by the way.”

“So I heard.” Harry's dry reply sent Wolfe and BraveHeart into a fit of giggles. 

Half just grinned and rubbed his big nose. “Marshmallows?” He produced a bag of colourful sweets from one of his oversized pockets. “Speaking of which: How do biscuits, chocolate and marshmallows communicate? In s'mores-code!”

All four doubled over in laughter and Harry felt the anxiety of being in this unknown situation partially falling off of him. He started to like those crazies. Wolfe seemed a bit silly, BraveHeart was way too easily excited and Half had a bit of a domineering personality, but they were already making him feel safe and that really counted for something now, didn't it?

“Hilarious!” squeaked BraveHeart breathlessly and then turned towards the horses. “Ember! Half brought marshmallows! Even the green ones that you like so much!”

There was a faint grunt and Harry wondered how many more new people he would have to meet today until he could finally get some rest. But still, his curiosity got the best of him and he peeped over his marshmallow-on-stick that Wolfe had just handed him, at the mysterious 'Amber girl' that must have been sleeping behind the horses.

What emerged though wasn't a girl at all. Rather it was a mountain of a boy: broad shoulders, thick neck, gorilla-like arms and a flat nose in an expressionless face under a pudding-bowl haircut. He was dressed in nothing but a singed piece of old robes, arranged carelessly around his privates. The most interesting thing about this newest addition of Harry's ever-growing assortment of weirdos though was the sooty skin that was interveined with dimly glowing red veins, making him look like a moving bulk of half-hardened lava. Ember, glowing ashes, of course. 

Ember's sunken-in eyes met Harry's over the campfire and he quickly looked away. There was something about this cinder man that was deeply disturbing. 

Deep in thought, he jumped as something warm and wet brushed his ear. “Lightning! Stop eating my wreath!” Harry pulled away to the loud amusement of his new acquaintances. He growled. “Everyone, this is Lightning the leaf thief. And,” a quick look around, “this is Snowdrop, my owl.” 

Wolfe cooed delighted. “What a beauty she is.” Snowdrop seemed to agree with this assessment as she gracefully landed on the girl's shoulder and accepted an un-barbecued piece of marshmallow from her. 

“Oh. My. Goddess! Don't tell me, is that? It can't be! Is that _Perchta's crown_?!” screeched BraveHeart suddenly and pointed bouncing at Harry's flower chaplet. 

Immediately the whole group was staring at Harry in utter silence. It was somewhat eerie.

“Erm, no, the person who gave this to me was called Holle,” explained the target of the stares.

“But that _is_ Perchta! So, it really is her crown! Unbelievable. You are so lucky!” BraveHeart's eyes had become round like the moon and he gawked so unabashedly that Harry felt a blush creeping up his neck. Especially since the others joined in on the rapt ogling. Like he was some sort of carnival attraction; when they themselves were the weirder people here. 

Half cleared his throat, trying to look important: “Perchta is Holle, is Selden is Mallt-y-Nos, is Diana is Artemis, is Persephone is Hekate, is many others. She has lots of names. We all call her the name she had when we first met her, so for us, she is Perchta and for you, she is Holle,” he clarified. 

“But who exactly is –“ Harry was cut off.

“Aren't we done with introductions yet? Besides, time to eat!” chuckled Wolfe who had finished handing out sticks with sticky sweets in different colours.

“Right, almost forgot,” nodded Half, spinning his marshmallow over the fire. Harry got the distinct impression that the jokester was the group's leader. “We still have to pick a name for you, newbie.”

“I have a name. My name is Harry. Here, it's even written on my jumper.” And with that Harry opened his robes to show the embroidery on his chest. BraveHeart whistled appreciatively and Wolfe made an ooh-sound. 

Harry looked at Half with a smirk, ready to tell him 'I told you so', but the words dried on his lips when he saw the odd expression that had frozen the redhead's face in place. It was a complicated feeling somewhere between painful sweetness and agony of the worst kind.

“Put that away.” Ember's voice was low and surprisingly soft. He pushed Harry's robes shut with one big hand. 

Between his vibrant and vivid companions, the soot boy was like a cloud of darkness that absorbed the surrounding light. Harry shifted as far away as possible. Ember made him uneasy.

“So,” Harry hemmed, trying to gloss over the awkward moment, “how exactly do we know each other? Because I think I hit my head. Sorry, but I can't really remember you. Or me for that matter.”

“Oh, that's easy: You're glowing,” stated Wolfe after checking with a quick glance that a pale-faced Half wasn't going to answer. BraveHeart nodded eagerly.

Harry lifted his hands before his eyes and turned them over. “I'm not though.”

“You are,” reinforced the giggly girl. “You just can't see it. Only _we_ can see that you glow. And only _you_ can see that _we_ glow. Isn't that so? We are glowing to you as well, aren't we?”

She was right of course. Harry had noticed it instantly, the moment he had met Half. All of them – Wolfe, BraveHeart, Half, even Ember – were not just around his age, but also glowing with that inner light. Not the horses though. Harry mused for a second if horses couldn't glow in this world. 

“What does it mean? The glow, does it mean anything?” Harry asked.

“It means,” said Half who seemed to have come to terms with whatever had caused his earlier mood-swing, “that we have met before we died, before we came to The Hunt. We are each other's Somewhen Things.”

Harry blinked rapidly. Had he heard that correctly?

“What do you mean 'before we died'? I'm not dead!” Harry had gotten to his feet without even noticing it. BraveHeart's eyes flew from one to the other.

“Oh my, had no one told you yet?” Wolfe squealed scandalized. Then she continued, piping down a bit: “It's not as bad as it sounds. See, we all are dead. It's sad, sure. I mean, look at us, all so young and pretty.” (Ember snorted.) “But it's okay. You're among friends. We knew you before, we'll stick together after. We'll take care of you.”

“I'M NOT _DEAD_!” roared Harry, headache back in full force.

“But you don't remember anything, do you? How do you know you're not dead, hm?” Half's condescendingly soothing tone enraged Harry even further.

“I just know! You're crazy if you think you're dead! Even crazier if you think _I_ am! I'm leaving. You're all nuts!” And with that he turned to escape these lunatics.

“What if we can prove it? Look at your wrist.” Half had gotten up too and was tentatively reaching for Harry's arm. “Here, let me show you.”

After a moment of hesitation, Harry let Half gently take his left wrist against better judgment. The ginger lifted their hands and stopped short. “Huh. He's right, gang. He's really not dead.”

Surprised cries followed this revelation and the whole group crowded around them to look at the thin piece of knotted yarn wrapped around Harry's wrist, something he hadn't noticed before and was now eyeing with the same curiosity as the others. 

While they were whispering and prodding at the thread, Harry detected that each of them were similarly wearing a string-bracelet around their left wrists. All of theirs were red though, while Harry's was – “White! It's white! Do you see that? It's really white!” BraveHeart nearly pressed his nose into the cotton with agitation.

“It's not all white though. This knot's red. What does that mean?” Wolfe had the scandalizing knot between her delicate fingers and looked at Half questioningly. 

“I'm not sure.” Half kneaded his lower lip. “But red means dead and white means witness, so maybe one red knot means he... wanted to die?” He darted a glance at Harry who vehemently shook his head....and then hesitated. He suddenly had the oddest feeling, as if, as if maybe, deep down, he had really... but no, impossible... 

He shook his head once more. “I don't know what you're talking about. But one thing's for sure: I'm not dead.”

“Yet.” Ember's hoarse voice made Harry shiver.

“No, you're not dead,” Half shot Ember a warning look. “It just doesn't happen so often these days that The Hunt picks up witnesses. My bad. But hey, I'm only Half, dead.”

Harry rolled his eyes. His appetite for jokes had dried up. He wanted answers. “Okay, now, why don't you start at the beginning? What is The Hunt? Witness to what? Why do you think you're all dead?” Harry sat demonstratively back down on the ground and after a second the others followed suit.

Everyone's eyes turned awaitingly to Half who sighed deeply and then started unravelling the surrounding mysteries: “Alright, so, we all are part of The Wild Hunt.” He made a big arm gesture, encircling the loud people and animals around them. “Short version: The Hunt is a cortège mostly consisting of ghosts of those who have died a cruel death or at too young an age,” he pointed at Wolfe, BraveHeart, himself and Ember in turn, “and dead or abandoned animals.” He tickled Snowdrop's head. “But sometimes, very rarely really, there are also those we call 'witnesses'. People like you who saw The Hunt and for one reason or other were taken with us. I don't strictly know why or how they pick such people. You'll have to ask Perchta – Holle – the next time you see her. She is one of the two leaders of The Hunt and a mighty supernatural being. You should always be respectful towards her. Her and Berchthold, the other leader, or rather _the_ leader. Perchta, I mean, Holle, is more like his second-in-command most of the time.”

Harry nodded. “So, what you're saying is that I got abducted by this ghost procession. And you really are dead, ghosts. Even most of the animals.” Agreement all around. “But, if you are dead and I'm alive then how can you know me?”

“The glow!” squeaked BraveHeart. “It's the glow! We told you!”

“Yes, but what does it _mean_? You said, it meant that we had met before we died, but I'm _not dead_.” Harry felt exasperated.

“It simply means, we met you before we died. When we were all alive,” Half picked up the conversation. “In The Hunt when you see something or someone glow like us, it means you know them from your time _before_ The Hunt. More often than not they are little reminders from your old life that's why we call glowing stuff – alive or dead –“ (Wolfe started sniggering on that pun.) “Somewhen Things. Things you 'met' sometime in your life but don't remember. Like Snowdrop, she glows for me, I've met her before.” A chorus of 'me too' sounded.

Somewhen Things... Harry had the strange feeling he should probably tell the others that not only the wreath was glowing for him but also the pond. But there was something else that had caught his interest. “Hold on. Does that mean – do you guys also not remember your life before you came here?”

All of them suddenly looked very sad, very young and very vulnerable. Harry felt bad for asking.

Wolfe sniffled a bit, but straightened her pose. “We don't and,” she glanced at the others, “we would love to remember, but the thing is, it's better that we don't. We can never go back and it would just make us unhappy pining after a life we can no longer have.”

Harry saw her with new eyes. She, who had thus far seemed so childish with her constant giggling, had now shown her true greatness. Wolfe was far tougher than she let on and Harry respected her for that. 

“But life in The Hunt is fun, we like it here,” added Half. “When we first arrived we were exactly like you, lost, confused and angry, but we were told what we passed on to you just now and we settled in. This is our new home, our new family.” He tenderly looked at the others and finally at Harry. “And you are part of this now, of us.”

Feeling a sudden surge of warmth, Harry got almost a bad conscience for saying the next words: “That is really generous of you all. But as I'm still alive, I think, I'd rather seek a way back to the world of the living.”

The four dead teenagers exchanged silent glances. 

Then BraveHeart was practically screaming: “How exciting!” 

“Indeed,” concurred Wolfe, grinning broadly, “and based on that, we shall henceforth call you Seeker.”

The gang exploded in laughter and approving clapping, even though Harry tried half-heartedly to quiet them down and tell them that under no circumstances would he be called _Seeker_. Yet his tries fell on deaf ears, so he gave up and joined into the once again cheerful mood. 

“That's not going to be easy, finding a way back,” Half sobered after a while. “I've never heard of anyone who left The Hunt. Besides, where would you go if you don't remember where you came from?”

“I'll cross that bridge when I get there. But true, how _do_ I know the things I know without remembering?”

Half smirked. “Magic! No, really, it's more like amnesia – you remember how to talk, but not what you said.”

Magic. Harry rolled his eyes. It would be _magical_ to get out of The Hunt ASAP. 

Half caught that and exchanged furtive looks with the others before sneering. “Seeker, when I met you down at Holle's Pond, did you, I don't know, _hear_ anything unusual?”

“My name is _Harry_!” growled Harry. Then he furrowed his brows. “Do you mean the bells?”

“Called it!” called BraveHeart and high-fived a smug-looking Ember. 

“What?” Harry watched them irritated as they all burst into another peal of laughter.

“The thing is,” panted Wolfe, holding her stomach, “that only Sunday Children can hear the bells of Holle's Pond.”

Harry's eyebrows knitted together. “I was born on a Thursday! ...I think.” He was increasingly annoyed by the renewed delight of his band of comrades. 

“It means, hihi, it means, you are a magic doer, Seeker! Sunday Children are those born with magic.” BraveHeart tee-heed out of breath.

Harry folded his arms before his chest. “My name is Harry,” he said with a snarl, not at all amused about being called not only dead a few minutes ago but now a wizard? By the name of Seeker? His irritation bubbled up.

It must have shown on his face, since Ember suddenly stopped chortling and declared with a sombre voice: “We all can hear the bells, too. We were all born with magic. We thought you might as well, since The Hunt picked you up at the same castle, we came from some months back. The Hunt often passes through those woods there,” he nodded in agreement with his own words. “We all came from there. We are one.” 

That was the most Harry had ever heard him say. What was more, it had deflated Harry's anger somehow and left him with a complicated feeling of wanting to go into two different directions at once, staying here with them and leaving, back to his life.

“Alright, I got it,” Harry relented. “Just one more question, yeah? If you're all dead, how come everyone's eating and drinking around here?” 

Half arched an eyebrow. “Nourishment for the soul, also: magic!” 

“You can't answer everything with 'magic'!” But Harry laughed at that. 

From somewhere, a hunting horn sounded. 

While they had been talking, it had gotten dark again due to the heavy storm clouds overhead. 

“Almost time to go,” whispered BraveHeart and Harry's funny friends all turned solemn. The horses were made to stand up, the fire was extinguished. All around them, people did those same things. 

“Here you are, Seeker.” (“Harry!”) Wolfe was offering him a rainbow-coloured horseback cover, while Half unasked hung a satchel over Harry's shoulder. “Up in the saddle. In a way.”

Harry eyed Lightning with scepticism. “I can't ride.”

Half grinned humourlessly. “It's really easy: Don't fall down!” He mounted Gee which had, Harry doubled back, six legs. Okay.

On Harry's other side, Wolfe was already on Binky's back, while Ember helped BraveHeart onto Grapes and then turned towards Harry.

“Er, I – oh, okay, thanks, er, Ember,” Harry stuttered as the hulk lifted him onto Lightning without further ado. Harry felt severely unsafe and grabbed the reins tighter than explicitly necessary. Sweat was rolling down his back. But if he ever wanted a chance to get out of The Hunt, he had to leave this valley first. And horseback seemed to be the only way out.

“Alright there, Seeker?” Half came up on his right side, Snowdrop on his shoulder.

“It's Harry,” hissed Harry, too scared to fall down for an argument.

“Okay, so what you need to do is this: Just follow Berchthold on Sleipnir. He knows the way.” Half was serious for once and pointed in the distance where Harry could make out a lone rider, halfway up the slope. 

Even from afar, Harry could tell he was a gigantic man, sitting on a gigantic eight-legged pale white horse. Berchthold, leader of The Wild Hunt, wearing a green hunting attire, was enveloped in an ever-moving storm cloud that lay on his shoulders like a cloak and similar to Holle, he had an iron chain wound around his hips. He, too, was sprouting horns from his head, though in his case they were rather impressive antlers. Most prominent feature however was the red and black half-mask that covered the right side of his face contrasting sharply with his fair skin.

Meanwhile, what made him stand apart from any other entity Harry had ever laid eyes upon was his raw _existence_. There was no better word for it. In a way comparable to Holle's presence was Berchthold's the exact opposite in feeling. While Holle was exuberantly alive, Berchthold was oppressing like ringing silence. He was thunder and lightning and yet he was the eye of the storm, most deadly, most powerful. Harry felt the hairs on his arms standing upright. This man was doom laced with an unsettling amount of peace. 

As Harry had been watching, Holle had fluttered next to Berchthold. She looked even tinier next to the huge ghost rider.

Harry shuddered. He had the most bizarre feeling that they were _looking at him_. 

It thundered. 

He quickly shook off the thought and turned his gaze away. It was almost unbearable to observe those two so close together anyway. It hurt his eyes like looking directly into flickering lights.

“Everyone ready to rumble?” Half's peppy voice was harsh in the suddenly up-picking storm winds. 

Harry nodded faintly and saw the others do the same. His gaze stopped on Ember who was still on foot and now that Harry thought about it, he realized that there was no horse left. “What about Ember?”

Wolfe turned a prancing Binky towards him, her face nervous. “Ember is infantry, so to speak. He – he did something not so great in life and that's why they wouldn't give him a horse and make him a hunter. But don't worry. He's a fast runner.”

Harry stared at her. “Are you saying you have him _run_ alongside us the whole way?”

“That's alright,” Ember had appeared next to Lightning. “I'm used to it.”

The uneasy feeling was back, stronger than before. _'Something not so great'_. Yeah, Harry could totally see that, with Ember having 'nasty personality' basically written all over him. He just didn't _like_ the cinder. There was something about him.... but then again... _'We are one'_ , he'd said. Harry sighed. “Get up, Lightning is strong. He can carry two.” He held out his hand for Ember to grab. 

The scorched boy looked at him. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Harry said valiantly and wished he hadn't the moment Ember's heavy body squished in behind him on Lightning's back. Strong arms surrounded his waist and the stench of burning was all over him. 

And suddenly he was flying. Different arms, a different boy, but the same smell. _'The door, get to the door, the door!'_ rang a familiar yet unfamiliar voice in his head and for a split-second he remembered blond hair and storm grey eyes and an ache so sweet, so old clawed its way to his heart, making him gasp. 

It was over before it really began. Harry was back with the others and they were getting ready to leave. 

“Halali! Death-haloo!” Berchthold's booming voice sounded like thunder. The Hunt started moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
>  _“Harry’s Theme”_ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bmBE6_gCTww  
> Anne-Sophie Mutter - Rey’s Theme
> 
> This song is more a Harry-with-The-Hunt Theme.  
> It starts mischievous like the participants of The Hunt, playing and partying.  
> Then, mixing in mysterious tones for Holle.  
> The melting violin marks the journey, flying over wide landscapes on horseback.  
> Horns and darker tones for Bertchhold, almost dangerous for those who fear The Hunt.  
> Epic tones for Harry’s epic adventures,  
> ending in quiet doubt about his decisions. 
> 
> **Trivia:**  
>  Holle's Tracht might look a bit like this  
> http://www.folklorekreis.de/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/DSC0167-e1495301525965.jpg  
> 
> 
> Holle's maang tikka might look a bit like this  
>  https://blog.bridals.pk/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/crescent-2.jpg  
> 
> 
> The place where The Hunt is resting is called Cadair Idris.  
>  https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5qtZb6Sq3EE/XJW2iqzMC8I/AAAAAAAAaI8/i-XPa7t2kvUW1Xmz1KF7xs9PEA2pXeeMACLcBGAs/s1600/cader-idris.jpg  
> 
> 
> Berchthold's mask might look a bit like this  
> https://i.etsystatic.com/9105221/d/il/36a748/761123536/il_340x270.761123536_chf6.jpg?version=1


	5. Intermezzo I: All seem to say

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, how are you all?  
> This is a flashback chapter. A glorious idea my super-creative super-beta umbrellaless22 came up with.  
> Enjoy!

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, the Wizengamot sentences you for complicit Death Eatery to a lifetime in A– “

“Acquitted! We're acquitted.” Someone shook Draco's shoulder hard and rattled him back to reality. _“Acquitted!”_ His mother's normally so dignified voice was high pitched like a little girl's as she dug her detention-imposed un-manicured nails deep into Draco's upper arm.

Acquitted. Huh. Draco let out a long-held breath. Who would have seen that coming? Not him, that's for sure. Right up until the end of the trial he had been certain that he would spend the rest of his life in a cell in Azkaban – whether that would have been a long solitude or a short dread till receiving the Dementor's Kiss. 

Draco felt dizzy. The dark walled dungeon of a courtroom was full of chatter and movement. Members of the newly reassembled Wizengamot made their way towards the door, not paying any attention to the Malfoy family who had been up until just now accused war criminals. Yet the verdict was said, the trial was done, there was a sense of relief in the air. 

“Let's get out of here,” whispered his father into his ear after uncharacteristically hugging both, his wife and his son, in his arms. He smelled of sweat, but Draco didn't mind.

“Where to though? Is the Manor...?” Narcissa Malfoy looked uncertain.

“It's all taken care of. All your properties are as of now returned into your custody,” said their appointed attorney witch (a new thing, appointed attorneys) and pushed up her glasses. “Now, if you just sign here, you're free to go.” 

While his parents eagerly reached for the offered quill to retrieve their freedom, Draco's gaze flew across the room and landed on the key witness of this trial. 

His thoughts went to the past.

Back then, after weeks in holding (not in Azkaban, but in some quickly reinforced interrogation room turned make-shift cell in the Ministry's dungeons), their attorney had visited Draco unannounced. 

Without preamble she had come in, sat down across him and declared that Harry Bloody Potter, War Hero Par Excellence, was going to be witness for the defence, because (she used air-quotes here) “it's the right thing” and that poor, helpless Draco should just state the facts, be remorseful, stick to the sob story of a misguided child, appear pitiful (no problem there, incarceration did nothing for Draco's looks) and let Potter handle the rest. 

At that point Draco had suppressed a groan and just nodded. If Potter had gone cray cray after saving the British wizarding world and needed an ego-boost, who was Draco to deny him a little helper-syndrome fun? 

Besides – and Draco would rather rot than ever say this out loud – it would be good to see Potter again. That unruly black mop, those bony wrists that had pulled Draco from the fire... 

“All set.” The folder snapped shut. “Now: Have a good life.” With that, their attorney left them, quite unceremoniously.

“Time to go home.” Lucius Malfoy must have really been touch starved, because he took Draco's hand as if the latter was a ten-year-old. It was his mother though, who with a sharp jerk of her head towards the crowd that washed around Potter, stated: “We need to say goodbye.”

Lucius stiffened, but quickly regained his composure (a feat, considering his prisoner's clothes), bobbing his head once in agreement. 

The little family made its way through the masses and reached Potter who seemed to be busy shaking hands while simultaneously... receiving gifts? Typical. Draco's life was on the brink of doom and Potter celebrated his own greatness.

“Ahem,” Lucius cleared his throat, effectively silencing all onlookers. “Mr. Potter, I would like to offer gratitude for you graciously lending your hand to–“

“I didn't do it for _you_ ,” cut Potter in with a stern face and added after a brief glance at Narcissa. “Neither of us did.”

Draco suddenly felt three pairs of eyes on him. He didn’t go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale cheeks. What was that supposed to mean? Did Potter just insinuate that he had helped with the trial _for Draco_? Surely not. But Potter stared at him so intensely that Draco could do nothing but stare back. Oh Merlin.

“We'll wait in the Atrium for you, darling,” said Narcissa Malfoy crisply and pulled her bewildered husband away with her. “Thank you again, Mr. Potter!” she called over her shoulder. 

Draco blinked. What the...?

His gaze slipped back to Potter who was unnervingly still looking at him with that weird expression. What do you say to someone you had hearty loathing for for seven years and then had some moments of silent agreement with during wartime? 

“Potter.” Draco dipped his head and steered for the exit.

He had only made it three steps down the corridor though when Potter's hand slipped under his elbow and manoeuvred him through the closest door into the very waiting room Draco had met his parents again after not having had seen them in weeks. The feelings of happiness about the reunion and trepidation on the prospect of maybe never seeing them again after today still hung in the air like invisible smoke and made Draco suddenly claustrophobic.

“Hands off, Potter! Think only because you're everyone's Golden Boy, you can touch me however you like now? Fat chance.” Draco forcefully pulled his arm free from the other's grip.

Potter rolled his eyes. The audacity. “Oh. Come off it, Malfoy. I just wanted to talk to you in private, is all. Besides,” here, he grinned bitterly, “what's there to touch anyway? You're only skin and bones.”

“And whose fault is that, I wonder? Couldn't get me out sooner now, could you?” spat Draco. How dare Potter talk to him like that when he himself looked like a walking World Hunger Aid ad? Seriously, did that boy never eat?

“Are you saying, it's my–? You know what? Forget it. I simply wanted to give this back to you.” 

Potter pulled out a wand which made Draco flinch back violently. Was this payback all along? Eyes wide, Draco stood frozen. As did Potter whose brows knitted together. 

“Malfoy...”

“I'm sorry! I know I should have said it earlier and I know it doesn't mean anything now, but _I'm sorry_! I'm sorry for all the petty arguments and the tricks I played on you and, no, let's be honest, I'm _not_ sorry about those, but I _am_ sorry about all the other things. I never wanted you expelled or hurt or worse. I didn't know what I was doing, I didn't know it would turn out like this. I was blind to the consequences and I didn't, I didn't...I...Potter...” All of this had cascaded out of Draco involuntarily and in his inner turmoil he had crossed the space between them, totally ignoring the still poised wand, and had now both his hands dug in Potter's front, standing face to face with the Saviour.

“Erm, I just wanted to give you back your wand?” Up close, Potter looked taken aback and flustered, weakly offering Draco the wand he now recognized as his own. “But, apology accepted. I guess.”

Draco flushed scarlet and let go of Potter's robes as if they were burning, taking two steps back. Glancing this way and that but unable to meet the other's eyes, he reached for the powerful piece of wood, then hesitated. “Are you sure? I mean, you won it fair and square and... you defeated the Dark Lord with it.”

“I'm sure. I like my own wand better,” Potter pulled a second wand from his pocket. This time Draco remained calm. “Besides, I'm positive, your wand will always remember me.”

Whatever _that_ was supposed to mean. 

“Well, if you're certain...” When Draco's fingers touched the wooden surface it felt welcoming like the warmth of his mother's hug after their long separation. _“Lumos,”_ he said tenderly and watched the tip light up in a soft glow. 

“Thank you,” he croaked, “and thank you for,” he made a vague hand gesture, “all this. And... for saving my life. Twice.” The last words were barely a whisper.

“Couldn't have done it if you had given me away at the Manor. If you'd identified me then, I would have been too dead to save you.” Potter managed to grin, that idiot.

Draco snorted. “Yeah, well, _no one_ could have recognised that mug. Whatever did you do to your face back then?”

Potter shrugged. “Hermione burned me.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Where is your entourage anyway?”

“Australia.”

Seemed like that was all the answer Draco was getting. Not that he cared. 

He cleared his throat. “Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad you're not dead.”

Their eyes locked, taking them both back to the agonizing moments of eternity when Potter had indeed been dead for Draco. To the snippet of infinity when, after all hell had broken loose with Potter's 'resurrection', they had passed each other in the crowd. Just a split-second they had held each other's gaze. Blazing green eyes on tear filled grey ones and Draco had known that Potter had understood that Draco had been crying for Harry. Because that one time, in all of Draco's life, Potter had been Harry to him, in the seconds when Draco's last remaining piece of happy childhood had shattered to smithereens with Harry's death. 

“Good, because I'm glad I'm not dead, too,” tried Potter to ease the mood. Yet there was a hint of something else that Draco couldn't quite place.

He huffed, but followed suit. “Whatever, Scarhead.”

“Git.”

“Four-eyes!”

“...I really missed you this year, you know? I missed us,” Potter blushed despite his solemn tone. “I mean the banter.”

God, what was wrong with this guy? Draco felt his heart flutter awkwardly. “Could you stop sounding like a cheap romance novel?”

Potter grinned at that. “But you're giving me such good groundwork! Anyway, I think it's high time for _this_ , don't you agree?” He held out his hand to shake Draco's and after a moment, Draco took it.

It felt right.

Just two boys shaking hands. Seven years too late. Or maybe at just the right time, for a new start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r30D3SW4OVw  
> Maurice Ravel - Bolero
> 
> The best music piece to show that a small beginning can turn into something big.  
> A handshake can do so much...


	6. Chapter 4: That is their song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost Yuletide, be careful of The Wild Hunt everyone~
> 
> Greatest thanks to my ever-patient beta umbrellaless22 <3

“Okay, so... this Peanut,” (“Potter.”) “was taken by The Wild Hunt, a group of mystical ghost riders. You witnessed that. Therefore, you want to help him and that's why we have to research The Hunt to find him?” The Weasel looked questioningly at Draco, who could all but suppress an annoyed eye roll.

How many times was that now? Five? Ten? But he had to be patient and repeat the purpose of their meeting every now and then or else the other two would slowly forget. 

“Yes.”

The redhead huffed exasperatedly and flopped himself onto the table they had all been sitting around for some time, talking in circles. “Research, ugh. I thought I was done with school work for a lifetime! Is he really worth all the hassle?”

“He's worth it.” Draco didn't even have to think about the answer. Of course Potter was worth it. 

Hermione, who had been sitting quietly, studying the nursery rhyme about The Hunt that Draco had hastily written down for them, looked up at this. 

“You must really like him,” she said with a thoughtful expression.

Draco felt heat creeping up his collar. “It's not like that. I just owe him, is all. He saved my life during the war. Yours, too, I'd wager. Lots of times, probably.”

“Sounds like a good guy,” the Weasel mused, while Granger's gaze dropped back onto the paper.

“He is. Good to a fault. That's why he deserves some rescuing himself this time round,” Draco sighed. 

They'd been at it for a while now and hadn't really gotten anywhere. He was starting to feel a headache forming. When the Golden Couple had entered the hunt for The Hunt, he had been hopeful. After all, Potter had managed to win a bloody war with these two at his side. Yet the more often Draco had to repeat the great Potter vanishing act story, the more despaired he'd become. They wouldn't be able to help him, if they couldn't remember what Draco told them. It was useless. He was just about to say as much and bid his guests farewell, when Granger suddenly nodded, as if to herself.

“Alright, I think I've got it now.” 

Both boys stared at her.

“Yes. This is what we need to do: Ron, you take this. _Geminio!_ ” She flicked her wand, duplicated Draco's hand-written lines and handed the copy to her boyfriend. “And I'll keep this one,” waving the original in her hand, she continued, “so that we won't forget about The Hunt. I feel like I figured out how the mind trick works in this case. We can't research about abducted people or their erased memories, because that is inherently countered by The Hunt's magic. So that won't work. What we can do, though, is look up The Hunt itself. I know,” she held up her hand to stop Draco from indignantly interrupting her by pointing out that he had been saying that all along, “you said that before, but you missed the crucial point. You're concentrating on finding Piedro and tell us about him every five minutes. But that just triggers the memory erasure. So, what we, Ron and I, have got to do is focus on The Hunt and only that. We can recall things related to the phenomenon as long as it doesn't touch Patty. So, stop reminding us about him and we might actually figure this out. Because, while looking for The Hunt, we'll find out about the kidnapped people eventually, I'm sure,” she finished, looking at her audience expectantly.

Draco had to admit that it made sense. Investigating The Hunt meant ultimately locating it and with it, Potter. Which was what he'd been suggesting from the beginning. Yet... Granger might be onto something with the not-mentioning about Scarhead for now. If they could keep the information about The Hunt better this way.... 

“Alright,” he acquiesced. “So, researching The Hunt. For that I suggest we go and have a look at the books at Hogwarts.”

The girl nodded. “Good idea. But that might not be enough for such a specific topic. I was thinking – isn't there an actual wizarding library somewhere?” 

Draco and the Weasel shared a confused look.

“What do you mean? We were literally just talking about the library at Hogwarts,” Weasley crinkled his nose. “Did you forget that?”

“No,” the witch's wild hair was flying, “I wasn't talking about the castle. I meant a _public_ library. A house just for books,” she added when seeing the puzzled faces of the boys. 

“What purpose would that have?” the ginger wondered out loud what Draco was thinking.

“Well, to go and borrow books, of course. Take them home and read them, then return them. That way, you don't have to buy them,” explained Granger in a teacher-voice.

“Is that a Muggle thing?” asked Draco, weirdly fascinated by the thought of a house exclusively built for books.

“Er, yes, I suppose. Judging from your reactions anyway,” she replied carefully.

Draco suddenly became acutely aware that the look she was giving him was one of wariness. As if, any moment now, he could turn his nose on the library idea just because it was Muggle. He took a deep breath. Maybe she wasn't so far off. If it had been a few months back, he might have. But now, things were different. And a wizarding library sounded like a bloody brilliant idea. Too bad it didn't exist.

“We don't have anything like that, I'm afraid. Libraries are more of a family matter. Like, all pure-blood families have private libraries at home and then obviously there is Hogwarts,” Draco elucidated.

The bookworm turned to her boyfriend. “Really? Do you have a library at The Burrow?”

“Er, well, not really. I mean, we have a few books, but honestly... you know our house, Hermione, we don't have space for a room just for books. Where would we put that?”

Draco made his best effort not to look scandalized. Seriously those Weasleys were worse blood traitors than he'd ever – no, he cut himself off halfway. He mustn't think of the freckled lot as blood traitors anymore. He swore to himself to leave those bigoted ways behind him. But still, how could anyone not have a private library? Pft, heathens.

“You have one though,” veered the bushy-headed witch round Draco, “up in the Manor.” It wasn't really a question.

“Yes,” was his reluctant response. He wasn't comfortable with where this was heading.

“Excellent,” Granger clapped her hands and looked all at once very enthusiastic. “You go there first then. Ron, you'll check if there's a library at Grimmauld Place, I'll take Hogwarts and then we all meet back here in, let's say– _what?_ ”

There were a lot of 'whats' that Draco could think of in that sentence. Starting from the fact that he didn't like to be ordered around. Mostly though, “How do you know about the old Black house at Grimmauld Place, Granger?” And where had he recently heard this name before, Draco wondered.

She blinked. “Ah, yeah, we... sort of lived there for a while? Last year when we were on the run from Voldemort.” 

Draco recoiled by the sound of the hated name. Still, he managed to send both of them incredulous looks. “You lived in my ancestors' house? _You?_ And _Weasley?_ ” 'And Potter...?', he added silently. 

“No need to sound so offended. It's not like any of you lot took good care of that dust-hole in ages,” Weasley scoffed and folded his arms across his chest. “Besides, you couldn't get in now even if you wanted to. The house is under a Fidelius Charm and you're not in on it.” Suddenly his eyes went small. “Or are you? Did your Death Eater pal Yaxley tell you the secret?”

Connecting the dots, Draco abruptly felt a wave of cold splashing over him. “No, he didn't. To be more precise, he couldn't, since he had only been taken there but not explicitly told the location. They tried to get it out of him though...” his voice cracked a bit. “He was fixated upside down in mid-air in the parlour for days. I–“ The image had brought back others. Draco started trembling. “Excuse me. I need to fetch more tea.” 

His legs gave out before he even reached the door and he crumbled to the floor. His predominant feeling at this embarrassment should have been being flustered but all he felt was dread. He had tried to face the past, but it still wasn't easy to relive certain events. Especially when they came unexpectedly.

“Malfoy, Malfoy! Man, are you okay?” Kneeling down on either side of Draco were Granger and Weasley, the latter gently but urgently shaking his shoulder. 

“Fine,” Draco croaked. But he felt like shit. He had to tell them. Not that he particularly wanted to, but for Potter's sake, he would. He gulped in a lungful of air. “I'm fine. But I, that is,” he closed his eyes, “I can't go back into the Manor. I just, I can't. I can tell you were to go, but you'll have to go without me.”

Being unable to enter the Manor had come gradually. It had been uncomfortable to go back there after the trial but the haunting feeling of bone-crushing guilt had only crept in piece by piece, day by day. Until in the end, Draco couldn't even look at his childhood home anymore without having to breathe heavily. He had thought he was handling it though, slowly but surely. 

Until now.

“Yeah, alright,” the Weasel's hand was still firmly on Draco's shoulder, somewhat grounding him in the here and now. “I'll go in alone. No,” the redhead's grip intensified, “you shouldn't go either, Hermione. Not after everything that happened to you in there.” Draco's quivering redoubled and he felt how dangerously close he was to a full-blown panic attack. Granger on the floor, screaming; Potter, dead in Hagrid's arms and– 

“It's okay now.” A warm female arm wrapped itself around Draco softly. “I'm okay. You're okay. We're okay. It's all good.”

Draco was clinging to the words barely audible over the ringing in his ears and after a while, when he came down from his tremor, he realized that words hadn't been the only thing he had clung to: His hands were grasping tightly to one arm of Granger and the Weasel each, who were awkwardly spooning him from both sides.

Draco coughed, feeling a tinge of red in his cheeks. But he also felt grateful. 

Granger took the hint. She straightened. “Good, so, new plan. Malfoy and I will go to Grimmauld Place and Ron, do you think you'll be alright going into the Manor alone?”

“I'll manage,” the freckled boy gave her a reassuring smile. “And after we meet back here?”

“Yeah,” Granger agreed. 

Draco nodded silently. 

***

“You, Draco Malfoy, are hereby allowed to see and enter number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London, the former Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix,” Granger announced in earnest tone, after she and Draco had arrived on snow-covered pavement seconds before. 

Draco felt a surge of utter annoyance at the wording – as if he needed to be _allowed_ into his own great aunt's house. Although it seemed that the Fidelius Charm had thought so, since only after the Secret-Keeper had finished did the house front before them move to either side and gave view to number twelve that had previously been hidden between number eleven and thirteen. 

It was quite the spectacle, but Draco's thoughts were elsewhere when they climbed the stairs to the entrance. Something was niggling at the back of his mind. “Granger...”

“Ah, someone must have removed the trip-wire entry spell. Good thing, too, since it was designed to affect Dumbledore's killer and, er...“ she glanced at Draco as they entered the dimly lit hallway. 

His face went dark. “And that's why you brought me here, isn't it? But I didn't kill him.”

“I know! Snape did and with good reasons!” his companion hastily assured.

“But you're wondering if I _wanted_ to kill Dumbledore. This was a test,” Draco laughed bitterly. Of course, how could he have imagined people would just forgive him so easily? He felt feeble. 

“No!” said Granger, but her quickly averting eyes said 'yes'. 

“...I never wanted to kill anyone. Not really. Do you want me to take Veritaserum to prove it?”

She blushed, clearly feeling caught. “No, er... I believe you. Hrm, anyway, I think the library is on the second floor so why don't we–“

“Was that it? Can I go now?” Draco's hurt shone through his words although he tried his best to hide it. Believe him, my ass. 

Granger looked bewildered. “Go?”

“Well, as you obviously took me here to verify something and seeing that that didn't work, can I go now? I _was_ thinking it felt strange that you wanted to go together to the Black library. When three people going to three different libraries at the same time is so much more efficient. And don't tell me you needed me to carry books or some-such, you're a rather capable witch after all,” he crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the bushy-haired girl in front of him who had the decency to look guilty. 

“I'm sorry, Malfoy.” Granger faced him now, eyes serious. “I wasn't sure, alright? You've pulled elaborate pranks on us before. Though, to be honest, I think you're speaking the truth this time. It's only that you keep evading when we ask you about...Palmer. See, I just don't understand your motivation.”

Draco huffed. “I told you: I'm doing this because someone's in trouble and needs saving. And weren't you the one who said not to bring up Potter so you would remember The Hunt better?”

Ignoring the last sentence, she narrowed her eyes at him. “So what, are you saying that you've got a bit of a _people-saving thing?_ ” She looked confused for a moment as if she had wanted to speak different words. Then she shook her head. “I don't know, but that frankly doesn't sound much like you. So why can't you just be honest with me? Look at it from this side: Everything you tell me now, I'll probably forget because it has something to do with Pipkin.”

“Potter,” Draco sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. If he'd learned one thing about Granger during their years in school together it was that she was persistent. And really, would it hurt to say it out loud once? “Okay, fine, maybe – possibly – I _might_ want to help him because I ... miss him. I mean, after the war... with him is the only place I feel truly safe.”

She nodded. “Because he's your friend.”

“We're not strictly... friends,” Draco cringed a bit.

Granger's eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I get it. Sorry. Because he's your _boyfriend._ ”

“What? _No!_ Absolutely not! Where on earth did you get that idea? That he and I, that we–” The thought itself was too embarrassing to finish. “We're definitely not... not... not _that!_ ”

But the big grin on the Golden Girl's face spoke volumes of the amount she was buying into Draco's assurances.

He felt way too hot. Time to change the topic. “You were saying second floor, yes?” With that he briskly walked ahead up the stairs with a still broadly smiling Granger trailing behind him. 

“Did you know?” she asked chipper. “There used to hang a portrait of your great aunt Walburga here. She insulted everyone passing by. Guess someone took it down. Well, good riddance if you ask me. She was very annoying.”

'So are you right now,' thought Draco, but he didn't voice it. It was his own fault for being so forthcoming with a nosy Gryffindor. He exhaled slowly. It had felt good though to say these things for once. Keeping his feelings inside all the time was tiring. Maybe having a forgetful outlet for Potter stuff wasn't the worst side-effect of this disaster. 

They had reached the second floor and upon opening several doors (one of which was a cosy looking bedroom that had, despite the abandonment of the house, a warm, lived-in feeling to it) they had finally found Grimmauld Place' private library. A room which turned out to be big, naturally lit and somewhat friendly, with a round fluffy rug dominating the spacious middle between walls and walls filled with books. To Draco though, it seemed a bit weird that there was basically no dust to be seen anywhere.

“Well, this looks promising!” Granger's eyes were sparkling with excitement. “How about you take the left side and I take the right?”

“How about,” drawled a paper-thin voice from behind, making them both jump, “you tell me what the Mudblood and young Master Malfoy are doing here in my Mistress' house.”

The smartypants put her hand to her heart. “Geez, Kreacher! You scared the hell out of us! Er, hello, how have you been?”

Draco eyed the old house-elf that had popped up next to the large window wearily . He vaguely remembered seeing him once at the Manor. On Death Eater business.

“Kreacher doesn't know why the Mudblood thinks she can talk to Kreacher freely, Kreacher doesn't know,” the creature whispered loudly.

It was his own guilt mixed with the new-found need of her assistance that made Draco go “Don't call her that!” in a slightly louder voice than anticipated.

The house-elf startled. “Of course. Kreacher will do as young Master Malfoy says.” He bowed.

The following silence was thick with unpleasant emotions of various kinds. Granger was a bit pale as she finally turned to Draco: “Thank you. Though I don't understand why this was necessary.” Her eyes searching Kreacher's. “You haven't called me a, _that_ , for a long time now. I thought we were getting friendly while Ron and I lived here? Is it, were you lonely? Are you mad we didn't come visit. I'm sorry, Kreacher, we were busy.”

Hearing a witch talk thusly to a house-elf didn't sit well with Draco at all. Lonely servants. Laughable. But when he contemplated the wrinkled-skinned little fellow, his views wavered as Kreacher's bloodshot eyes had a longing look to them, if only for a moment.

“Kreacher doesn't have to answer the M– girl. Kreacher only has to answer to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Young Master Malfoy, how can Kreacher be of service?” He bowed again.

Draco exchanged looks with Granger. She was distraught, he could tell, but determination settled in as she nodded once. “Why don't you see what useful books you can find here and meanwhile I head to Hogwarts alone? I think this might go faster with Kreacher's help.”

The house-elf shook his bat-like ears. “Kreacher doesn't know about the books, but the M– girl is not to touch them! Oh, if my Mistress knew, she would cry.”

“I think that's a splendid idea, Granger. Go on ahead to Hogwarts,” Draco said loudly, “and take Kreacher with you. He will go and help with patching up the castle until further notice.”

Kreacher's snout-like nose wobbled when he stared at Draco with so much indignation as he could muster. He didn't talk back though. 

Granger smiled faintly. She had understood that Draco's order was in Kreacher's best interest. After all, the elf would hardly be lonely in Hogwarts.

“Alright,” the girl shook her bushy curls and gave the room a scrutinizing look. “Malfoy, what do you think about setting up shop here rather than your place? No offence, but the gatehouse is awfully small. Here, however, we would have enough space to store and categorize books.”

Draco agreed with this assessment. “That would be better.”

“Good, then I'll send Ron a Patronus to meet us here later. Kreacher, let's go.” With that she took an unwilling Kreacher's hand and Disapparated with a loud crack.

Draco was left alone, but he felt hopeful. There were books to scan. 

***

The day had turned into evening and from somewhere on the mantelpiece of the gently crackling fireplace in Grimmauld Place' library it chimed 8 o'clock on Boxing Day. 

Draco yawned, stretched his arms over his head and rolled over on his back. That wasn't hard to do since for some time now all three of them had been lying prone on the fluffy rug. At first Draco had vehemently refused and widely sneered at such a behaviour, yet after a while he found that it was more comfortable to join the Golden Couple on the floor and also more convenient when they were exchanging books, scrolls and hand-written parchments back and forth over a single bottle of ink in the middle of their circle, three quills dipped in. 

In the beginning, it had been a tense, awkward atmosphere, with all of them being uncomfortable with each other, their shared history hanging in the room like suffocating smoke. But soon the familiarity of 'doing homework with schoolmates' had taken over, making them all ease up a little until they found in the silence a productive companionship. For the moment at least. 

As if Draco's little break had been an inspiration, the Weasel followed suit by flopping onto his back with a groan. “I don't think I ever want to read another word in my _life._ ”

“Don't be such a child, Ronald! We've only scratched the surface.” Granger clapped her book shut and rearranged herself to sit cross-legged. 

“I know,” whined the redhead, arms over his face, “but this surface is already a chaotic heap of tangled nonsense and honestly, Hermione, one more book and I'll go crazy.”

Draco bit his lip hard and blinked away the upcoming mocking reply that tried to climb out of his mouth. He succeeded in turning the spiteful comment into a tame snort which was echoed by one of Granger's.

“Alright, so how about we take stock of what we have so far?” she suggested.

Another moan from Weasley. “Again? We did that like a hundred times already.”

“Yes, but in case all our notes disappear overnight,” (A howl from the ginger.) “Malfoy needs to be able to recall everything we've found out today. Besides, you and I keep forgetting things, so repetition is key in this case, wouldn't you agree?” She gave her boyfriend a stern look.

“Sure, whatever you say,” he sighed, accepting his fate. 

Draco had hoped that with the promising amount of references to The Hunt in several books from the three libraries, they would make fast progress and have Potter home for dinner time. However, the longer the research took the more Draco had realised that it wouldn't be so easy after all. Stories about The Hunt were strewn all over, some in unreadable griffonage, some in foreign languages. He dealt with the French ones and Granger had some ideas about others here and there, but they all stumbled over German texts that were few and far between for the apparent reason that the fable of The Hunt seemed to have been first written down by famous Muggle fairy tale teller Jacob Grimm (a fact that had earned Draco a suspicious glance from the redhead). Draco's stomach churned at the thought of Potter all alone with blood-thirsty horror characters in a group of ghosts. Nothing to be done now though. Potter could take care of himself somehow. Draco had to believe that and work towards his rescue as fast as possible – even if that meant starting at snail's pace at the moment.

The Weasel reached for a closely written page. “I'll start then, yes? Okay, so The Wild Hunt, also abbreviated to The Hunt, is a phenomenon that is known in wide parts of Western and Middle Europe as well as Scandinavia and Canada. The stories about The Hunt vary strongly depending on the country or even region, as is seen in Germany where there can be found up to nine different versions. What most of them have in common is that The Hunt is a procession of (fabulous) animals and people said to be ghosts or the souls of the lost. They predominantly travel on horseback in the sky, although there is also a variation with them sitting in a giant canoe or fishing boat or versions with them riding pigs instead of horses. There are reports in which they wear masks or look demonic and they appear often during winter storms, which fits with the frequently mentioned appearance period of Yule- or Twelvetide. Although The Hunt is also quoted to be in action during other big religious holidays, winter seems to be the main time of activity. Their manifestations are regularly connected to pending doom or death.”

Granger nodded. “Exactly and they are spearheaded by a leader, who also serves as the cavalcade's crier. Depending on the stories’ origin, he is said to be various persons, can be either male or female. Among the 20 personas we've found so far, more often than not the leader is described as a man riding a pale horse. Among other things he is called winter, hell hunter, king of the nation of the wind, lord of storms or even the god of magic. He is thought to carry either a club or a crossbow as well as a harp or a hunting horn. He hunts prey but there are stories of him chasing a woman – his companion or even his alter ego in other tales – or a folk of little forest people that might be fae or other beings. But at times he supposedly hunts down wrongdoers until they can no longer run. Some say he can see the future with his right eye and that he can shape-shift into things or animals, particularly into a stag. Also, he's frequently accompanied by a right hand man or woman – or dog.”

They _had_ done this a few times already and Draco was impressed by the others' resilience, especially since he was sure that by now both of them had completely forgotten about the original reason for starting the research: Potter. 

Now they sort of found a rhythm in rendering their notes and Draco knew his cue. “Which brings us to the most ambiguous character in The Hunt stories: the crone. Known under 21 names so far, some call her spring, guardian of the treasures of the interior of the earth, of weaving and of the doors between worlds; queen of heaven or indeed the goddess of hearth, birth and crossroads. People say she holds a golden or silver bow and arrows, a stick, dagger, whip or hunting net as a weapon, as well as a torch, spindle and keys. She is ever and anon connected to plants such as elder which is dedicated to her, wheat for spring or stinging nettles that are to ward off misfortune. The latter can come upon you if she feels you deserve punishment, yet she is also known to give out rewards such as protection from fires. Which makes sense since she can conjure snow and hail. Oh, and also her breath can blind people. In some versions, she used to be young and beautiful once, but is more often pictured as an old woman, she can also be a man, a raven, a black kite or, as dog, leader of the pack of hellhounds that travel with The Hunt's fugleman, who is sometimes identified to be said crone herself. So basically the leader and the old woman are two sides of the same coin.”

The ginger huffed. “And _that_ is not confusing at all. I mean is the leader a guy or his right hand woman or is _she_ the leader and he's her right hand man and which of them is riding in a wagon if any at all? Moreover, does he hunt her or is she part of The Hunt? And what's with the story where houses built on old roads get trampled but people are safe as long as they stand exactly in the middle of the street? Also, The Hunt brings doom but sometimes it's a good omen? Same as that leader being described as a demon, yet protector of the poor? This all doesn't make sense!” 

“Right, we'll figure that out later. But what about the witnesses?” Granger thumped through a thick tome until she found the right passage. “ _'The Wild Hunt is known to be peaceful if not provoked, however it can happen that people with a strong affinity to death who witness the cortège are taken. That distinguishes them from the dead who join willingly. There are also unconfirmed accounts of vanishing memories about witnesses. Apparently only the most powerful kind of connection lets them remain.'_ I think that this might explain what happened to Peacock,” (Draco looked up, he was surprised she still remembered enough to use a false Potter name.) “which is probably that, because he got taken alive, memories of him went away with him. Whereas the memories of the dead stay behind because they went on their own free will. Does that make sense?” She looked at Draco. “What about the affinity to death bit though? Do you think...he had a death wish?”

An unnerving thought. Draco wanted to say 'never' but images of a worn-out, grey-faced Potter during Hogwarts patches came to mind and as much as he tried to laugh at the idea that the Saviour didn't enjoy life, he knew better. “I'm not sure, but... it's not entirely impossible. I think he feels guilty a lot.”

His two companions were silent. Then: “Can you tell us a bit about him? About Pappel?”

The request came as a surprise. Draco's eyebrows lifted themselves without his permission. “But you said it's better I don't mention Potter all the time. For your memory.”

“Yeah, but,” it was Weasley who answered, hand awkwardly on his neck, “we just want to know, you know. What he's like. Even if we forget instantly. For instance what does he have to feel guilty about?”

“Nothing,” said Draco as he put his hand to his chest for a moment. “It's just that he's a do-gooder kind of person and he blames himself for every death he couldn't prevent.”

Weasley had propped himself up on his elbows and was watching Draco with rapt attention now. “So Piggledy fought in the war?”

“Of course he did. Potter was basically the drive behind the whole resistance. But his huge ego wouldn't have survived if he hadn't pulled a solo – sorry, trio – stunt and had vanished for half a year, doing who-knows-what,” Draco rolled his eyes.

“Are you saying he was on the run with us?” Granger demanded, eagerness of her face.

“Oh, he sure was. Until he wasn't, that is. Actually, you two can just imagine an invisible third party following you around all last year. That would sum it up nicely,” retorted Draco with a sneer.

“That's not a creepy image _at all_ ,” Granger shuddered. “But, 'huge ego' – he was arrogant then? Is that why you got along so well?”

At that, Draco raised an eyebrow at her. That girl really had some guts to challenge him so blatantly. Alright, have it her way, but he wouldn't play. “We don't get along,” he said dryly, examining his nails. “He is all that I am not: kind, forgiving, brave – also, easily flustered, oblivious and way too much of a bleeding heart type. In conclusion, he drives me up the walls. And don't talk about him in past tense.”

“Gee, Malfoy, stop the gushing, will you? If you keep spouting cheesy love confessions about my supposedly best friend, I'll hurl.” The Weasel made a gagging noise.

Draco felt fire creeping up his face as he almost shouted: “There was NO love confession!” 

“Sounded like one to me,” the ginger shrugged, while grinning from ear to ear.

Huffing, Draco turned away and crossed his arms over his chest. Now that Potter wasn't here, Weasley seemed to have taken over at keeping Draco annoyed. Great, just great.

“ _Anyhow_ , he was at The Battle of Hogwarts? And fought Voldemort with us?” Granger's eyes still showed signs of mirth but had gone serious once again.

Draco ignored the shiver, instead he put as much haughtiness as possible into the next words: “ _He_ did the fighting. It was bloody hero Potter who defeated the Dark Lord while you all just gawked at him. Did it with this very wand,” he held up his magic stick and twirled it around.

“Ha! Yeah, right. He can also fly, has fought a dragon and shits rainbows, your mighty Pooper. Come off it, Malfoy – you sound like Luna!” Weasley cackled and rolled on the floor, laughing. 

“I'll have you know,” drawled Draco, suddenly in high dudgeon on Potter's behalf for being called 'Pooper', “that he did indeed bravely best a dragon – on three different occasions! AND yes, he can fly. Actually, he is the best flyer you'll ever see on a broom. The youngest Seeker at Hogwarts in a century. Not that you would understand the significance, Weasel, with your poor flying skills.”

“What was that, Ferret?” Without warning the mood had changed and a red-faced redhead clenched his fists at an equally pumped-up Draco.

Momentarily, it looked like they would start hexing each other, but both of their attention was drawn to the shaking girl in their midst who was holding her stomach and trying really hard not to burst into laughter. 

“Sorry, it's just – weasels and ferrets are actually distant relatives in the animal kingdom,” Granger giggled.

Both boys glared at her. 

“And so are you: fourth cousins once removed! Molly told me.” She was positively squealing now, which was somehow infective and soon all three of them were out of breath from laughing. It felt nice. 

What a complicated relationship they all had. 

After hours and hours of research and worry, these outbursts of hilarity were needed to balance them all out. 

“So, did Padraig really beat Voldemort,” (Draco shuddered, but it didn't reach his heart – for once he was almost happy) “with that wand?” panted freckle-face.

Draco simply nodded.

“Why do you have it then? If it was his?” Granger questioningly put her palm out to touch Draco's wand and after a moment of hesitation he handed it to her.

“Because it's _my_ wand. Or it used to be mine before Potter took it from me at the Manor (where he was with you as well). He seemingly utilized it from then on. I guess it was _his_ wand during that time. Anyway, he gave it back to me after the war.”

Weasley ogled Draco and the wand with wonder. “This Poser really did all that? He sounds majorly cool, even with you describing him!”

“Except now, he's _gone with the wind_ ,” Granger found herself chuckling in delight until she realised that neither of the boys had joined into the laughter. “Gone with the wind! Like the movie?”

Draco cocked his head, a bit of irritation creeping into his voice. “What's a moo-vee?”

“No wait, before you answer that: time for a snack!” The ginger then proceeded with getting a little shrunken cake-box out of his pocket and enlarging it between them. “Ta-dah! I made it!” Potter's Weasel beamed proudly at Draco until uncertainty crept in. “What now? Do you think I can't bake a cake? I'll have you know that I studied cooking and stuff after our little camping trip to hell last year.” He shot Granger a tender look. “I'll never take it for granted again that someone else provides food for me,” he said, turning back to Draco. “So you can wipe your disgust off your face, Malfoy, my treacle tart is delicious, it is!”

Draco swallowed hard. “It's not that. Just, treacle tart is Potter's favourite.”

For a moment, they all looked at the baked gem then Granger cleared her throat. “I was thinking this before but could it be Ron and I remember Phyton in a non-memorial way? As in not with memories but with, I don't know, gut feeling? Maybe the crone's blinding breath really does blind, but in a more metaphorical sense? Like making people unable to _see memories_ but it can't eradicate feelings?”

“Interesting idea, but why didn't she blind Ferret here then?” The Weasel was already stuffing his face. Draco's stomach growled. They had foregone dinner, so maybe just a tiny piece...

“It's because of the connection,” champed Granger, “the most powerful connection.” She shook her head at the forlorn gazes directed at her. “Oh come on, it's so easy. Malfoy, you said it yourself: Parsley had your wand. You both shared a wand, in a manner of speaking. Wand magic connecting you both is the most powerful connection.”

“That...makes sense,” said Draco slowly.

Weasley who was licking tart crumbs off his fingers looked up in confusion. “What does?”

“That Potter owning my wand for a while makes up the strong connection needed so that I didn't forget about him when everyone else did.”

“Forget about whom?” Granger's hand hovered over a new piece of tart.

Oh wonderful. That again. Draco took a deep breath – and let it out. Nope. Enough for today. “You know what? Nevermind. How about we do some more research?”

Weasley's face scrunched up in mock-pain. “Do we have to? It's Boxing Day, Malfoy! We have family plans!” Big blue puppy eyes looked at him, fluttering their lashes. Bleh, Draco felt sick. “Don't you?” 

“Don't I what?” Draco snapped in a fit of pique. It was one thing to be unable to keep memories of Potter because of The Hunt's magic, another altogether though to skip out of helping to go frolicking when Potter was in distress somewhere.

“Don't you have plans with your family?” the Weasel obliviously clarified. “I mean you've been at this project the whole time. Don't you want to go home for Christmas? See your parents?”

“It's none of your business whether or not I visit my parents! And as for 'going home' there isn't any 'home' I could go to at the moment,” Draco hissed. “Although... I mean... I've been thinking...”

He _had_ been thinking. About the Black lineage being extinct, about Kreacher the house-elf listening to Draco's orders, about the dreadful Manor and its close proximity to the gatehouse... and about Grimmauld Place' big library and the cosy bedroom next door. 

“...I've been thinking of moving in here. Temporarily. Until we find P– The Hunt,” he nodded, more to bolster himself up than anything else. “So we could leave all the books and documents here and all that.”

He looked at the other two. Not that he needed their permission, but if they made a fuss he might not be able to live here after all.

To his surprise though, Granger positively beamed. “That is a great idea, Malfoy!” She turned to Weasley. “It would be just like old times!”

Her boyfriend looked way less enthusiastic, but agreed nevertheless. “Might not be all too bad, really. After all, it's a bit of a shame no one's using this place anymore and it is your great aunt's old house, so yeah? Why not? I say, go for it.”

Draco felt relief flooding his body, but he quickly dampened it down. “I didn't ask for your approval, Weasel, but I'll take it into account that you acquiesce,” he sniffed.

For a second, the redhead looked like he would bite back, but then he just shrugged. “Whatever, Ferret. Now –“ he turned to his girlfriend, “shall we?”

“Yeah,” Granger got up and smoothed down her skirt. “You'll be okay with everything, Malfoy?”

Draco nodded. It felt still weird to talk so normally with these two. As if they hadn't been at each other's throats for years.

“Good, then,” she linked her hand with Weasley's. “Tomorrow at noon?”

Another nod.

“Bye, Ferret.” 

“Happy Boxing Day, Malfoy!”

Crack. And they were gone.

***

It only took Draco one trip to move everything he owned from the gatehouse to Grimmauld Place. 

Even though he hadn't had any specific plans to move out yet, the thought had been on his mind for a while now. It was just difficult to find a different place to live – after all, it had to be a wizarding location (problem one: No one wants former Death Eaters as their neighbours) _and_ Draco had to like it (problem two to one thousand: He was picky as hell). 

Hence, basically falling in love with the old abandoned Black house came as much as a shock as it was welcome. As was Kreacher essentially acknowledging Draco as his master by following his orders and therefore making him someone permitted to live at Grimmauld Place. 

He had been pleasantly surprised by the non-wizarding vibe of the house, in no sense how he had expected it: There were warm-coloured walls instead of dusty paintings, open doors flooding sunlight onto the halls and not a single elf-head in sight (except for Kreacher's and that one was still attached to the body and very much alive, thank goodness). It didn't feel at all like a place his narky great aunt Walburga would have lived and he wondered briefly if maybe Granger and the Weasel did some redecorating during their stay here. 

Draco opened the door to the second-floor bedroom next to the library. 

This room had been the thing to really draw him in. While he had felt the homey atmosphere of the inside of the building itself, it had been this very sleeping chamber that had pinged something in Draco's heart. Earlier he had only had a quick peek but still, he had felt an instant pull. If Draco had to describe it, he would say it was a bit like a faint fragrance, as if someone with a nice perfume had just left the room. 

He waved his wand and used a _Scourgify_ spell to clean all nooks and crannies. He then proceeded to unshrink his luggage and levitated his belongings to wherever he thought they fitted best. 

Despite the mediocre outcome of today's research, he was in a good mood. With no one else around, now was the time to finally give in to an urge that had been lurking at the back of his mind for a few hours. So, while straightening a family portrait showing himself and his parents, he started humming and then quietly singing: _“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, his hair is as dark as a blackboard. I wish he was mine, he's really divine, the hero who conquered the Dark Lord."_

Smiling softly, Draco revelled in the memory of twelve-year-old Potter being all flustered. True, the song was ghastly, but what fun it had been to see Potter go red like a tomato. “I won't forget that,” Draco vowed to himself. 

He fed his eagle owl a few Owl Treats, cooing to him. Eagle (creative, right?) had always been a loyal companion for Draco. His company was soothing. 

Now, almost done. All that was left to store away were a few robes and clothes. Draco opened the antique wardrobe and stopped short. In the otherwise empty closet hung a lonesome garment. The thing looked peculiar. Draco reached out his hand hesitantly to the shining, silvery cloak; it was strange to touch like water woven into material. Or as if one would hold a hand into a cloud. Especially the part where said hand disappeared from sight. Draco blinked and pulled back. All fingers accounted for. 

He tried again, putting his whole arm under the fabric. It was gone without a trace.

“Merlin,” he breathed. 

An Invisibility Cloak. What an amazing find. He would use it well.

But not tonight. 

Draco suppressed a yawn and a head-shaking. Whatever next! 

When he'd finished putting his stuff away, washing up and changing into his pyjamas, he dropped dead-tired onto the bed, face first. 

Snuggling in, he _Noxed_ the lights. Ah, he would sleep so well and tomorrow morning– ...and tomorrow morning... 

Draco's eyes flew open. Bloody hell, what if he forgot about Potter again in the morning? What if, come the next day, he would no longer remember why there was a mountain of books in his new library? And what if the memories wouldn't come back this time? What if...

He cursed colourfully and _Accioed_ his teapot (pot, Potter, check) from the windowsill to place it on the bedside table. See if a little piece of mind magic would defeat a Malfoy. Ha! He'd show those stupid memories. 

And he would show Potter. _Saint_ Potter with his green eyes, stupid glasses, black bird's nest, fondness of treacle tart, bravery, heroics.... 

The list went on and on before Draco's eyelids drooped and he finally fell asleep – thoughts of Potter filling his head. 

***

_“Cadair Idris!”_

Draco flinched awake so violently that he actually fell out of bed.

“Wuzzat?” For a moment, he was disorientated by the strange environment, even threatened by the looming mass of bushy hair.

“Cadair Idris,” repeated Granger and pulled him unceremoniously onto his feet. “I took one of the volumes back to The Burrow for a bit of light reading and I found this!” She shoved an open book under Draco's sleepy nose. Its pages showed a moving, coloured picture of a round pond encircled by a ring of mountains, a breeze rustling the surface of the water. “ _'Cadair Idris is often cited as one of the hunting grounds of The Wild Hunt.'_ That's it! We have to go right now!”

Wild Hunt what? Go where? Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, Draco fuzzily realised that a redheaded someone was rummaging through his clothes. 

“Hey, Weasel, what are you doing with my robes?” Draco croaked, voice dark from sleep.

“Wish I knew. Hermione got me up right before dawn and insisted we come see you and go– where again?” He turned to his girlfriend who was impatiently tapping her foot.

“Wales. The book mentions that the sightings of The Hunt are often limited to one night of the year. Say it's tonight, then we have to get there before the sun comes up. Now, will you hurry? We have to leave!” With that she ripped the outfit out of Weasley's hands and pushed it onto Draco. “Get dressed. We wait outside.”

Draco stood dumbfounded for a moment, staring at the closed door. Did that just really happen? Did Hermione Granger, Muggle-born extraordinaire, simply walk into his bedroom and order him around? He blinked. And what was that about a hu– The Wild Hunt! Potter! Dammit, he had forgotten about him again! 

Draco was never dressed quicker.

***

Side by side they landed on the snow-covered shore of a midnight blue pond. 

“Brr, it's freezing.” The Weasel huffed milky-white breaths and jumped from foot to foot. That the ginger was standing right beneath a hiking route sign reading _Fox's Path_ was a hilarity that only half of Draco's brain could appreciate.

The other half was anxiously scanning the area.

“They're not here,” voiced Granger what they all saw. “No one's here.”

Draco' heart sank. 

“ _Someone_ was here though. Just recently. Look at this,” Weasley had bent down casting a _Lumos_ and pointed at the frozen ground. “Those are hoof prints, aren't they?”

“Yes and there are scorch marks from bonfires all over,” Granger chimed in, holding her wand higher to illuminate a wider circle. “And, are those marshmallows?”

“They were just here. Potter... was just here,” Draco whispered devastated. 

Despair reared its ugly head and made an attempt for his heart, but Draco swallowed it down bravely. They found him once, they would find him again. Together. 

With a breathtaking beauty, the sun came up behind the mountains, bathing the valley in wintry morning light. Everywhere it touched, the footprints and remnants of The Hunt disappeared like smoke before Draco's very eyes.

“Wow, that is spectacular.” The Weasel put his arm around Granger and she laid her head onto his shoulder. 

“Yeah, a spectacular failure,” said Draco miserably and kicked a stone. “We missed him.”

Granger looked at him. “Missed whom?”

Well, fuck his life. 

Draco didn't answer. Instead he turned towards the rising sun and watched it climb over the edge of the enchanted mountain top. 

The Hunt had moved on and with it, Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
>  _“Draco’s Theme”_ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6YDQEQHXaA  
> Dino Meneghin - If you need it so badly
> 
> I think it's when Draco's self-reflecting. Thoughtful and melancholic.  
> Picking up happy tunes when he thinks he's found something...  
> ...and regressing back to sad when it doesn't work.
> 
> **Trivia:**  
>  Cadair Idris   
> https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5qtZb6Sq3EE/XJW2iqzMC8I/AAAAAAAAaI8/i-XPa7t2kvUW1Xmz1KF7xs9PEA2pXeeMACLcBGAs/s1600/cader-idris.jpg


	7. Intermezzo II: From ev'rywhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy December!  
> Another flashback chapter. Have fun with it~
> 
> A trillion thanks to puddle umbrellaless22 for beta-ing <3

Hogwarts. Draco had been reluctant to come back here; but after the impromptu reorganization of the green houses with Professor Sprout last week, there had been a spark of hope. 

Suddenly, there was something to do with the endless hours of the endless days. Helping with patching up the castle seemed like a useful thing, like if he repaired the school he could somehow repair a piece of his messed up past.

Between the Manor's suffocating presence and his parents' tangible absence, it made sense to come back to the one place that had been Draco's second home for years.

Unfortunately others seemed to have had the same idea and so, when Draco had first arrived to help, he had been put off by the masses of people. 

Fortunately (or was it, really?) not many wanted to work with a former Death Eater and so he found the peace and redemption of patching the castle a rather solitary task. Pretty much exactly what he wanted.

Some of the work couldn't be done by one person alone though, which had led to several awkward and/or uncomfortable reunions with old schoolmates. Oh well.

Today, Draco was late for patching. It was mid-July and he had slept somewhat poorly due to the heat creeping into his bedroom. The gatehouse was not all that well isolated. He had therefore overslept and was now coming in to “work” only in the late hours of midday. 

So, he was sweaty (a fact that he loathed) and somewhat moody when he arrived at the Entrance Hall where Madam Hooch was coordinating assignments by sending groups of Patchers this way and that, crossing off jobs on a big chalkboard that was hovering near the stairs. 

“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy! Finally up, are we?” her sharp voice greeted him across the clamour.

Draco grumbled quietly. He was used to being addressed by name by the teachers by now; after all, he was one of the few that showed up almost daily. Nevertheless could he have done without sarcasm on this particular day. 

The flight instructor scanned the task board for a one-man-job as Draco approached, and tilted her head. “No luck, we don't have any single-missions at the moment. How about a nice team play for once, hm?” she smiled like a hawk. Damn her. 

“Alright,” huffed Draco. “What's up?”

“Roof repairs, left tower side. Two-people-task. How about it?” 

“Yeah, fine.” 

“Attention, we need another hand here. Who's up for roofing?” Madam Hooch's magically enforced voice caused several interested heads turning their way. Yet as soon as they saw who they would be partnered with, the free patch workers quickly resumed their loud chatter and all so they wouldn't have to work with Draco.

It stung only a tiny bit. He already knew those reactions. 

“I can do it by myself, really,” he said.

Madam Hooch opened her mouth – likely to object – but was cut off before she even started.

“No need. I'll help.” A black-haired someone appeared on Draco's right side. “Hey, Malfoy.”

Just his luck. Bloody Potter. Bugger.

Draco had seen Potter around the castle, patching. But aside from a few tense nods here and there they hadn't had much contact. They were civil – but civil didn't mean friendly.

Working together would certainly be....interesting.

“Great! That's settled then. You lads go and get your brooms down at the Quidditch pitch. Next!”

“Brooms?” Draco paled.

“Yeah. What did you think? That we fly up to the roof on carrots? Come on, Malfoy!” Potter had turned heel and was already bouncing towards the doors.

After a long moment of hesitation, Draco followed.

Trotting along after Potter, Draco felt a vague pinch of nostalgia bubbling up inside him. Hadn't it always been fun to play Quidditch against the Saviour? Draco smirked to himself. Especially those times when Potter had gotten into trouble. Good old days. 

They had reached the pitch and Potter started rummaging in the school supplies broom shack. Bending down he made for a pretty picture. 

Draco screwed up his eyes. What on earth was he doing, thinking about Potter's _ass_? Maybe a heatstroke...? 

“Not much choice, hm. Catch!” Draco was abruptly pulled out of his musings by a broom flying his way.

He caught it with the instincts of a former Seeker – and dropped it instantly as if it had burned him. Which it had, in a way.

Draco stared down onto the broom unfocussed, his breath suddenly too shallow to draw in enough air. Fucking get a grip, Draco!

Potter, oblivious idiot that he was, had meanwhile picked up the dropped object of offence and handed it to his patching partner. “Here.”

“I can't,” Draco croaked, backing away from the handle. “You'll have to do this on your own after all. I – I don't fly anymore.” He curled his hands into fists. He hadn't wanted it to sound so pathetic.

Potter's brows furrowed. “Why, you think you're too old to fly now just because you're out of school? Or what?”

Draco shook his head vehemently. He _really_ didn't want to have this conversation. Ever. Particularly not with Potter.

Scarhead, however, didn't seem to get the memo since he was narrowing his eyes at Draco, scrutinizing him in that familiar way. “What's wrong with you? You're as white as a...” His voice was trailing off, when his gaze dropped down to the two broomsticks in either of his hands and then back to Draco's face. 

Potter's expression softened and Draco wanted nothing more than to run away. He would have, had his legs not decided to turn into jelly. This was embarrassing beyond compare.

“What're you looking at?” he spat as venomously as possible. “I don't want to work with you, so kindly fuck the hell off already!”

To his horror, instead of angrily storming off the way Draco had hoped for, Potter took a step closer, shifted both brooms into a one-hand grip and put the now-free hand carefully on Draco's upper arm. 

“It was hard for me, too, to get back onto a broom, after the fire. But it's not going to get easier if you wait longer to try again. If anything, it gets harder.” 

Draco hated it that Potter could see right through him. Almost more than the fact that he was right.

“Did Granger tell you that?” Draco choked, shrugging off the other's hand. 

Potter smiled ruefully. “Yeah,” his lips turned a bit more playful, “and then she lectured me for half an hour: _'But you love flying!'_ Want to hear it?”

“No, thanks,” snorted Draco. He'd tried and failed to convince himself that he hadn't missed flying. What's more, he'd tried not to acknowledge (and this was harder to stomach than Draco had thought possible) that if he had to pick it up again, flying with Potter seemed to be the perfect option. Because Potter was safety. When did _that_ happen? Fuck. 

“Where are your cronies anyway?” 

Potter shot him a sharp look. “Don't call them that! But since you're asking: Ron helps out at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and Hermione is taking care of her parents.” There was something left unsaid between the lines and that something was dangerous, too closely connected to Draco's flight angst, so better not to touch on it.

Draco cleared his throat to interrupt the taut silence. “Why would you even want to work with me?”

Potter raised an eyebrow. “Because that's what we do here, Malfoy: fixing things.”

As if this thing between them was so easy to be fixed. An endeavour wouldn't hurt, though. 

“Let's try it then? And if I fall, you're there to catch me." It was supposed to be mocking but somehow came out serious.

“Of course,” answered Potter and the tone of his voice said he meant it. 

***

The sun was beating down mercilessly and Draco felt like he had sweated out every last drop of liquid from his body. Yet still those stupid roof beams wouldn't stay in place. Instead they kept collapsing back into a heap of wood and dust every other minute or so. 

After an unsteady start on the broom, Draco was back in his element again, even with only one hand on the handle while the other cast spells. He wondered why he'd ever considered giving up on flying. 

He glanced over at Potter, who took this very moment to groan in frustration. “I need a break. Malfoy?”

“Sure,” Draco shrugged nonchalantly. Like he would tell Potter that this was the single most brilliant idea in the universe. 

They landed on a small ledge bathed in glorious shade. 

Potter used his sleeve to wipe his forehead, the barbarian. 

“Gross! Potter, at least have a semblance of culture, will you? Use my handkerchief.” Draco passed the other boy a monogrammed piece of white brocade in exchange for the water bottle Potter had offered him. 

Dutifully, Potter dabbed at his face and made a move to hand the soaked handkerchief back to Draco. “Ugh, no, keep it. As an early birthday gift.”

Potter simply nodded and slumped down, leaning his back to a wall with his eyes closed. 

He looked a bit ill, thought Draco. He had certainly noticed Potter's dark circles, the ongoing boniness, their midnight run-ins in the Entrance Hall. Potter had said it himself, earlier: He was still struggling with war-related things, the same as Draco. And everyone else, Draco added bitterly and hesitantly took a sip from the bottle. The cold water felt divine. Draco eyelids were heavy and fell shut. 

"So, how's your family?"

Draco groaned inwardly. Did this oaf _really_ have to make small talk now? 

“None of your business,” Draco snapped a bit too forcefully. “I don't ask about _your_ family.”

“No, you just assume.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Draco turned his head to look at his companion.

“Nothing,” sighed Potter. 

“Well, obviously _not_ nothing or you wouldn't react this way. Now spill. You started it.”

Potter faced him, looking thoughtful as if contemplating something. Finally he spoke: “You know? I _did_ always wonder how it was possible for you to not figure it out even though you were certainly watching me closely for years.”

Draco turned bright red. He must have gotten a sunburn. “Excuse me?! If anyone was watching anyone, it was _you_ stalking _me_! But that's beside the point – what are you referring to?”

Potter took a deep breath. “My family.” Not what Draco had expected.

“What about them?”

“They are awful.”

Draco blinked. “Come again?”

Potter laughed silently and there was something unidentifiable glinting in his eyes. “It's true. You probably thought they fulfil my every wish but the sad truth is, they treat me like rubbish. Just because I am a wizard, they never even gave me a proper birthday present – even yours was better. Thanks by the way.” He waved the handkerchief. “No, before I came here I didn't have fitting clothes or a room or friends. Oh, but this has nothing to do with them being Muggles, not really. They are just bigots – a bit like you. Ha, don't you think it's ironic? I believe my cousin Dudley and you could have been best mates when we were younger; at least you shared a hobby: Harry-bashing. Well, he's nicer now... a bit like you.”

The scorching summer day blazed through the almost unmoving air around them lazily. Sounds of Patchers all around the castle carried on a singular breeze. From up here, the damages on the grounds were much more defined. Still so much to do. 

Draco stared. Stared at the seventeen-year-old across from him, stared at the teenager who had fought a war and defeated a mass-murderer, stared at the legend he had heard stories about since he could remember, stared at the boy who lived, who had been famous before he could walk and talk, who Draco had been so very sure was living the best life at home... Draco stared at a lonely child, neglected by his elders and for the first time in all their shared history the true impact of Draco's own needling hit him with full force. He had enviously picked on a boy who he had thought to have everything and who in reality had had nothing at all.

“I'm sorry.” Maybe the quietness in his voice made it more real than anything.

Potter had turned away, looking over the lake, seemingly rattled by his own honesty. He cleared his throat. “Shall we give it another try?” 

The double meaning wasn't lost on Draco. “I'd like that.”

Mounting their brooms, Draco couldn't help himself but voice a thought that had just occurred to him. “Is that why you're here so often? Because your family is shit?”

Potter snickered. “No. I don't live with them anymore. After all, I'm an adult in the wizarding world.”

Draco wondered briefly what Potter meant when he said _'in the wizarding world'_. Did Muggles come of age at a different time? But he shoved that thought aside. Not important.

They hovered over the caved-in part of the roof once again.

“You stay at The Burrow then?”

Potter shot a well-aimed reconstruction spell at the beams and Draco a curious look. “No? I moved into Grimmauld Place.”

That nearly hit Draco off his broom. “Where now? Surely not the old Black house?”

“The very one. Sirius left it to me.”

Draco huffed hot air. “Wow, that's really something.”

Potter gave him a taxing glower. “If you are thinking about complaining that I inherited your precious pure-blood heritage, don't. I had enough of that from your great aunt's portrait and let me tell you this, _she_ is now rotting in the cellar. Start with me and you can join her.”

That made Draco laugh, involuntarily. He quickly turned it into an innocuous cough, but not before catching Potter's smirk. “You can have it. I was merely surprised, is all.” He hesitated. “Actually, there were a lot of surprises today. Like when you were so painfully open just now.”

Swooping down low to examine the repaired roof part that seemed to finally stay whole, Potter had his back to Draco when he answered: “I just felt like I could. With you.”

So simple. And yet a thousand unsaid words. 

Draco gulped. Being honest, saying out loud what he really felt... how long had it been? But could he? Could he be open with Potter? 

Maybe.

Deep breath. "I... feel lonely. Even in a crowd." 

Potter gave him a levelled look. "What about now?" 

"...no." It was true. With Potter, Draco felt good, whole, in a way he hadn't for a really long time.

A smile brighter than the July sunshine turned Draco's way. “Great! And look – it's all done. So, how about some cooling down in the lake?”

“What makes you think I would _ever_ want to go swimming with _you_?” Draco had already adjusted his broom though and followed Potter down. 

Somehow, between spilling their truths and spilling their sweat they had come to an unspoken arrangement – to be confidants to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L1svzIOmIgY  
> Silbermond - Irgendwas bleibt  
> (Video has English on-screen lyrics.)
> 
> A song that shows the wishes of the boys - to have a place where nothing changed, a place that holds only good memories.


	8. Chapter 5: O, how they pound, raising their sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late chapter!  
> It's no longer Monday in any time zone...  
> Just that real life, that sneaky beast, tackled me with a double attack of Christmas preparations and increased Corona measures. I had to admit defeat this week. 
> 
> But I'll try my best to be on time next week. In any case the next chapter should be out before Christmas. 
> 
> Also, I raise my hat to umbrellaless22, a hero in their own way. Thank you!
> 
> Lastly, a warning: This chapter has a sad scene related to dying. Brace yourselves.

The Hunt lifted into the air, following its leader Berchthold and left Holle's Pond and the surrounding mountains behind, small like toys.

Up, up they soared, air rushed through Harry's hair and his robes whipped out behind him – and in a rush of fierce joy he realised he'd found something he could do without being taught – this was easy, this was _wonderful_. Flying was great! Even on a gluttonous horse, with a singed-smelling guy behind him, in the middle of a crazy crowd of dead people.

Harry laughed, carefree. This was the most fun he'd had since... well, this morning, but still. 

“Enjoying your first flight, Seeker?” The redheaded Half was soaring through the air on Harry's right, while Wolfe in her lavender toga glided left of him. BraveHeart's Grapes was neighing just in front, letting Harry see that there was a picture of a camera on the back of the tiny boy's shirt. 

“It's AMAZING,” yelled Harry happily over the noise of the wind and the frolicking hunting party, “and my name is Harry!”

Half snickered. “Wait till they bring the snow.”

“Or hail,” offered Wolfe.

“Or fog,” squeaked BraveHeart.

“And don't forget the storm wind, lightning and thunder,” Ember whisper-shouted into Harry's ear, a vapour of burned smell hitting his nose. 

“You're all awful!” But Harry couldn't suppress a gleeful giggle as he, amazed by the ease with which his owl Snowdrop kept up with his horse Lightning's speed, reached out to caress the former in mid-air. He was awarded with a delighted hoot.

After travelling over land for a while, they were soaring over an ocean now, the water a steel-blue grey, glittering in the winter sun. 

It would have been cold, but Ember's body gave off an amount of heat that wasn't quite normal, yet served the purpose of warming Harry thoroughly. 

He felt peaceful. 

Sure, he could have tried to break out of the formation, steer his horse away from The Hunt, but the truth was, flying with his new friends had touched something inside him; something he wasn't ready to leave behind yet. Not if the alternative would be a life he didn't remember and that he might have wanted to run away from. 

And there was something else: Curiosity nibbled at him. Where were they going? What was the purpose of The Hunt? Why him? He might never find out if he left now. 

But he wanted to know. So he stayed in line. After all, he could always make a run for it later.

 _“Mm, mm, over the seas far~”_ Wolfe hummed under her breath.

“That is a nice song.”

She looked up, surprised, as if she hadn't been aware she had company – which was quite a feat considering that The Hunt brawled all around them. “Ah, oh, thank you, Seeker. I invented it.” Her gaze turned thoughtful. “I always sing it when we cross big waters.”

“Indeed, she does.” Half's eye-roll was almost audible. “Please, don't encourage her, Seeker!”

“It's _Harry_! How often do I have to tell you?” Harry's annoyance suddenly turned to mischief, when he struck on an idea. “Oh, but, you know what? How about _I_ sing you a song instead? Goes like this:   
_Half does not like us to sing,  
He never sings a single thing,  
That's why Wolfe and Harry sing:  
Half is not our king_.”

BraveHeart stared open-mouthed at Harry. “Amazing! That was like so cool! Did you just make that up on the spot, Seeker?”

 _“Absolutely~”_ sing-songed Harry proudly. But in the back of his mind, he wondered if that was true. Somehow, the words, the melody, felt like something warm and vaguely familiar. 

He didn't have much time to think about it though, because a snort at his back caused the others to chime in and soon, with lots of laughter from all sides, the verse was repeated and reworded several times, BraveHeart singing the loudest of them all.

With friends like these, being part of The Hunt didn't seem so bad. Leaving it could wait a while.

As Snowdrop looped around the gang, Harry followed her with his eyes, taking in the bizarre picture: riders of every shape and form on all sides. There were also many people on foot, seemingly running in the open air. The sight was quite something, especially with the various animals in the crowd. 

Just then, a white dog, its red ears flapping, slid next to Lightning. Its fur looked fluffy, so Harry moved to touch it.

"I wouldn't pet this one, if I were you," said Ember casually.

Harry's hand shied away. "Why not?" 

"It's one of Berchthold's private pack, a dog of hell," Half chipped in. “It's a hell of a dog, haha. Seriously though, when prey is sighted, Perchta – Holle for you – calls them up ahead.” 

He pointed to the front of the procession where, in that very moment, a black greyhound with a fishtail, gliding next to Berchthold, opened her muzzle and – cried like _a goose_.

Even as a grotesque dog-thing, it was unmistakably Holle, the old crone, her aura radiating around her. 

The cry was answered immediately by the dog next to the group, with a blood-curdling goose noise of its own.

Harry flinched so hard he would have fallen off Lightning's back had Ember not held onto him.

“Wh-what was that? Was – is that really Holle?” Harry stuttered.

“She's Dormarth today,” giggled Wolfe next to him. 

“Of course she is,” replied Harry dryly. Why was he even wondering about anything anymore? Women changing their names all the time, women with wings, women that were dogs, dogs that honked like geese, sure. 

“Look, look, Seeker! It's starting!” BraveHeart nodded excitedly at Holle – no, Dormarth – who was quickly surrounded by a pack of red-eared white dogs with goose voices. 

As if the cry had been a sign, the weather changed with such sudden force that Harry had to cling to Lightning for dear life: The wind, just a breeze before, had now picked up, transforming into strong gusts. The forecasted lightning buzzed and thunder clapped around them, leaving an electric sort of taste in the air and Harry half-deaf. It started snowing and hailing in equal parts and a fog thick as pea soup materialized with breakneck speed over the water. 

Harry was brave or at least he felt brave today, but flying in a storm was insane. However, when he looked around in panic for a way out of the centre of the tempest, he found that none of the others seemed even the tiniest bit alarmed. In fact, they were still just as relaxed as they had been moments before, when the sky had been cold but friendly.

Well, _they_ were dead. Harry didn't feel like dying yet. 

He attempted to steer Lightning out of the clouds, when a firm hand closed around his wrist, effectively stopping him. 

“Don't.” Ember's voice was low. “It might not seem that way but we are completely safe inside Berchthold's storm – Half told me so. As long as we stay in the middle of it, nothing will harm us. We are The Wild Hunt.”

Harry slowly let out a breath. 

Yes, they _were_ The Wild Hunt. Harry was part of them now. Logically, he also realised that although the sky was almost black now, the smooth pace of the horses had not changed at all. They were galloping through the air as easily as before, protected by unseen forces.

Then some part of what had been said caught up with him. Hadn't Half explained that Holle only called the dogs when there was prey? They were over an ocean. What kind of prey could there be found here?

He peered ahead. Between the masses of bodies, beast and human alike, over the heads of the hellhound pack, in front of Berchthold's horse Sleipnir, Harry could make out a spot of gentle brightness. 

A small cloud of soft light floated preceding The Hunt in a distance. Simply looking at it made Harry feel whole, as if all the little holes in his heart were patched. It was an ethereal glimmer that enveloped every part of him, all while being far away. It was immemorial yearning, aching, wanting. In its centre was a shimmering dragon shrouded in feelings of home and safety. 

“That's The Beginning,” whispered Half, who had led his six-legged horse Gee close to Lightning's right flank. 

Harry didn't answer. He was too absorbed in the image.

"You don't see her?" Wolfe asked from his left.

Harry blinked, ripped from his daydream. "Her?" The dragon didn't look particularly female.

"Oh~" Wolfe's eyes went round. "You see something else!"

“Do you really, Seeker, do you?” BraveHeart had Grapes flying upside down and hung his head next to Harry's, looking eager. “What do you see?”

All his companions' eyes were on Harry, making him squirm uncomfortably. “...a dragon.”

There was a round of 'Ohs' and 'Ahs'.

“Everyone sees in The Beginning what they desire most,” explained BraveHeart in an uncharacteristically expert voice. “Unless their want aligns itself with the purpose of The Hunt, which is to catch the prey. Like us. We all see the same.”

Aha. Harry's dearest wish was a dragon. Not a nice unicorn maybe or a way back home, nope, a fire-spewing monster. Awesomesauce.

“Alright, what do _you_ see then?” Harry asked irritably.

“Perchta,” said Half with a shrug. 

“Perchta? You want to capture P– Now hold on, I thought she is that dog over there?” The Hunt's newest recruit was immensely confused.

“Oh, that's her alright. But _that_ over _there_ , The Beginning, is also her. Or at least a version of her. I never really understood it myself. But basically, it's something like Perchta's reincarnation or maybe a part of her?”

“And we hunt her because...?”

It was Ember that answered, voice in a duh-tone. “Because she is _The Beginning_.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I got that.”

“No, I don't think you did. She is... she is _life_. If we ever capture her, the world will start anew. A new beginning. The eternal circle,” Half's words carried effortlessly over the storm.

Wow, what craziness. Harry shook his head hard. He must have heard wrong. “But that means she is _evil_! Catching her will mean the end of everything. We have to stop this! Stop The Hunt from chasing her!”

To Harry's horror the others broke into a peal of laughter.

“You got it backwards, Seeker. She is The Beginning, not The End,” Wolfe cackled, wiping tears of amusement from her face. 

“But, but when there's a beginning then something has to end before! And you said she will restart _the world_ ,” Harry tried to reason.

“Ah, does it really though? Maybe it's just everything staying the same while being completely different,” Half grinned. “Don't worry, Seeker. He hasn't caught her in forever. Not since the beginning of our world. And he most likely won't for another eternity.” He winked.

Harry gave up, throwing his hands with the reins up in defeat which caused Lightning to huff disapprovingly. These guys made absolutely no sense and this was giving him headaches. One thing, however, seemed to be essential here: that The Hunt had a higher purpose than he had thought at first and that catching The Beginning would be very, very bad (or good?) and very, very far in the future.

Harry let his thoughts float. His gaze flickered back to the beautiful dragon. There was just something about it that made Harry's heart squeeze. 

_“Mm, mm, over the seas far~”_ Wolfe had quietly started singing again. 

***

“Oh, look! It's Sweden!” BraveHeart's passionate voice shook Harry from his daze, startling him awake.

They had been flying inside the storm for a while, hunting The Beginning, until the prey had disappeared and with it, the light and the game, leaving only open sea and a gentle breeze that had lulled Harry into slumber.

His gaze followed the outstretched arm of his new friend which pointed to a fast approaching land mass. 

Harry shielded his eyes. “How can you tell?”

The masked boy shrugged. “I just know. The houses and the landscape. Also, there are Swedish flags. Check it out, they even have the Scanian flag over there!” 

“The What-ian flag?” laughed Wolfe and leaned forward on Binky's back to squint at the tiny pieces of clothes in the wind. 

“Scanian. The flag of Scania, the south-most region of Sweden.” BraveHeart responded, suddenly a faraway look on his face. “The Swedish flag is blue with a yellow cross, the Scanian one is red with a yellow cross. Because the Danish flag is red with a white cross and Scania used to belong to Denmark for quite some time. Therefore, mixed Danish-Swedish flag equals Scanian flag.”

They all stared at the hyperactive boy sounding his age for once. 

“Where did you learn _that_?” Half shook his head, disbelieving.

BraveHeart furrowed his eyebrows. “I don't know. I just.... it's there, somehow. This region is glowing for me, a Somewhen Thing.”

That made sense in a way. If BraveHeart had been here when he was alive, he could have subconsciously recalled that specific knowledge. 

They were over land now, flying low above farms and fields. Snow was falling gently in their wake.

The sun started setting, even though it was only mid-afternoon. 

Over a particularly wide plane, The Hunt dipped down and landed on the snowy ground.

“Finally, food break!” Half tumbled off Gee's back and stretched his limbs. 

“Food?” Harry had also been stiffly attempting to climb off Lightning, only to be unasked aided, unasked, by Ember. The cinder boy was still not easy for Harry to be around, even after sharing a ride for the better part of the day. He looked at him askew. “Thanks, Ember.” 

The addressee simply shrugged.

“I wonder what they dished up for us this time.” Wolfe smoothed down her dress, the light fabric blowing in the breeze. Harry would never understand how the girl wasn't an icicle yet. If he had to guess the reason: Hunt magic. 

“Food?” he asked again. “Dish? What are you all talking about?” Harry was puzzled, but his new friends (and really all of The Hunt) had started migrating towards a corner of the field and didn't grace him with an answer. So he followed, more out of curiosity than peer pressure.

Soon the whole hunting party had gathered in a loose circle around a big pile of hay, stacked up under a crude wooden cross jutting crookedly out of the ground. Harry noticed that the set-up was on an unreaped stripe of the field that still displayed traces of left-over crop under the thin layer of fresh snow. 

“Mhm, not much to go on here,” said Wolfe with an unsatisfied look. “But at least they remembered the grass sacrifice for the horses. Binky, dig in!”

Neither Binky nor Lightning (or the other horses) needed much invitation though and soon the pile was visibly shrinking. 

“What's a grass sacrifice?” asked Harry no one in particular, petting Snowdrop who was perching on his shoulder. 

“People leave stuff for us so we don't harm them,” it was Ember who answered, an unpleasant look of hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with the hay, “because sometimes we do.” 

“Harm... I thought The Hunt is a funny group of dead beings continuously frolicking while chasing an unreachable goal?” Harry turned to Half, who felt somehow like the resident explainer of the gang.

“Oh, people all over the world know about The Hunt and most of them fear us. But that is only because they _want_ to fear us, or better, they think they _should_ fear us. So, basically, they see what they will themselves to see – when they have angst in their hearts they perceive demons and are afraid we bring catastrophes, droughts, wars or diseases. So they offer sacrifices to soothe our presumed rage. But when they have hope then they welcome us as an omen of good fortune. In those cases they recognize us as what we really are: happy party people,” he smirked. “Which reminds me: How do horses greet each other? Hay man!”

He doubled over laughing while several hunters chimed in. 

Harry's smile however felt wavering. He couldn't decide whether The Hunt was good or bad. Did it rage and harm so violently that people offered things to thwart it? Was it really responsible for wars? Or did people only _believe_ it so? Yet if The Hunt was essentially good then why was _he_ here, why did it take him? Should he try to leave immediately? Now, with everyone distracted, would be the perfect opportunity.

He shook his head. No, there were too many things that could go wrong. They were in Sweden after all. It was better to wait with the flight plan for the time when Harry was safely back in Britain. Yet... he wasn't wholly convinced of leaving, his heart was torn on that matter...

Still in thought, out of the corner of his eye, he suddenly spotted something glowing: Somewhen glow, the glow of things connected to his former life. Drawn to the source of light, he nosed forward until he had reached a side of the hay pile, where, hidden beneath a white tablecloth, he found an assortment of food, drink and everyday items. The snow had covered it up.

“Oh, _bread_! Look, they brought provisions after all!” cried a half-naked, somewhat demonic looking lady next to Harry and her words focussed the attention of the crowd on the findings. Excited masses shuffled to the victuals corner and Harry was pushed and prodded from all sides. 

He quickly grabbed what he came for and made a narrow escape out of the heap, pressing his trove to his chest. It was only when he stood with a bit of distance to the boisterous horde that he took a closer look at what had called him: it was a small brown teddy bear, worn from years of cuddling. 

Looking at the stuffed animal gave Harry pause. He had a Somewhen Thing that clearly belonged to a child. If there was a child waiting for him somewhere, shouldn't he put more effort into returning? Or maybe this was just something reminding him of his own childhood? Yes, that was more likely. He _would_ go back to his life, but exploring The Hunt's freedom for a while first wouldn't hurt. Just until he was back in Britain. 

Harry nodded to himself, ignoring that one part of him wanted the opposite of the other.

“Here, have some steel,” Ember had appeared at his shoulder and handed Harry a piece of shiny metal. 

“Er, thanks?” he said bewildered.

“Those are for horseshoes,” munched Wolfe next to Ember. “Don't you want some food, Seeker?”

“Oh, oh, you can share mine! Do you want some?” BraveHeart had also found them and shoved a piece of half-frozen bread in Harry's face.

“Another sacrifice?” Harry asked, trying to bite off at least a bit of the baker's ware. 

“Yeah,” champed Half, digging into a slice. “People in this region carry bread and steel with them during Yuletide when they go to church. In case they meet us. If they don't, they offer their things as a sacrifice in places like this one.”

“That's a bit crazy.” Harry had given up on the bread. It felt like he'd sooner break off a tooth than some of the crust.

“Ah, but it's not unusual. In other places we get beer, milk or ears of corn. In Austria they even write us an invitation:   
_'Luck in, bad luck out,  
around the house The Wild Hunt wanders about'._   
They love us over there!” 

To Harry this was all weirdness, but everyone else seemed totally fine, so he watched them eat, his eyes gliding over to settle on the leaders of their cortège.

Berchthold was still on horseback, seemingly listening into the distance. Holle as Dormarth lay at his feet, one of her eyes glowing eerily at Harry through the break of dusk. 

“Don't _they_ eat?”

“Now that you mention it – I don't think I've ever seen either of them take food,” Half scrunched up his nose.

At that moment, a pandemonium of geese noises was heard, prompting the fugleman to give the sign for departure by playing a short tune on a harp that had been fastened on his saddle. The whole mob scrambled to get to their mounts.

“What's with the haste?” Harry was half-dragged, half-pushed towards Lightning.

“The dogs are honking!” hissed Wolfe as if that was all the explanation anyone would need. Well, not Harry. 

He looked around. “I don't see The Beginning anywhere,” he managed to articulate while he was almost forcefully shoved up his horse by Half and Ember.

“It's not that! They started by themselves. Someone nearby is on their deathbed. We need to get there in time.” Half leapt onto Gee's back. 

Dying, someone was dying. Of course this shouldn't come as such a surprise for Harry since he was riding with a ghost army, but he still felt shell-shocked. This mustn't be happening, not again, not here, not– 

Darkness, all consuming, crashed over him, making it impossible to breath. People dying, his friends dying and it was his fault, his fault, his–

“SEEKER!” 

Harry snapped abruptly out of the nightmarish thoughts that had clouded his mind. He blinked, snowflakes brushing his face in flight. 

Right. He was riding with The Hunt, he was free. He took a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” Wolfe's voice was small and she looked concerned. 

Harry nodded numbly. 

“Death is part of life, you know,” Half offered carefully. “You can't help them now. But look at us: We are dead. That doesn't mean we can't still be happy. Alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied automatically. He felt sick to his stomach.

“Over there,” said Ember quietly, shifting their attention to a farmhouse coming quickly closer. Nightfall had come by now and all windows of the thatched roofed building were glowing islands in the dark.

The Hunt stopped in the courtyard, all of them crowding together on smallest space. 

An eerie hush blanketed the little grange, only interrupted by the screams: one faint wail from inside the house was echoed by a quiet honk of the hellhound pack, each subsequent one feebler than the preceding, until there was nothing but silence. 

Then a baby cried once.

Harry heard his heart beat, slow and steady. His panic had subsided and left him with goosebumps and a vague feeling of awe. A life had ended in these seconds. Another one had been created. How breathtaking the world was, how cruel, how wonderful.

Snow, softly falling in the light of the warm glow from the windows, gave the scene a velvety feel, when a young woman in a striped nightgown stepped through the walls into their midst. Her flaxen hair fell open over her shoulders as she put carefully one bare foot in front of the other. Folded in her arms, a bundle of newborn was sleeping. 

She stopped in front of Berchthold – a small figure before the giant on his mammoth horse. She seemed forlorn, so alone in the circle of silent watchers. Harry felt the urge to help her, but he held his tongue. Somehow this was not the time for him (or anyone) to interfere. This was Berchthold's time.

There were no words spoken, as the woman and the leader of The Wild Hunt looked at each other, eye to eye.

Finally she talked, her voice raspy from crying: “I heard your call. Thank you for the offer, but I won't go with you. My life was here and now, it is no more. I had all I ever wanted. I desire nothing you could give me.”

The spirit nodded solemnly. 

She then turned around to look at her home one last time, before directing her gaze to the infant in her arms. A melancholic smile danced on her lips as she kissed her baby, then laid it down into the snow. 

“Farewell, my heart, my love, my everything.” 

She closed her eyes. Her face was calm. Then she shimmered, her outlines turning blurry, fading until there was nothing left but countless tiny specks of light swirling in the frosty winter air – and she was gone.

It was the saddest and most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen. 

Wham! 

A wooden window frame crashed loudly against the outer wall of the house. 

“Don't do it! It's The Hunt, you mustn't look! There's nothing you can do for her anymore.” A frantic voice from inside was heard.

However, the young man who was now glaring out of the window with wild, pain-filled eyes was not having any of it. He stared at the assembled riders.”You! You give her back right this second. You bastards! You murderers! You _thieves_! Give my sister back right now, _right now_ , you hear me?”

Everyone froze in their saddles. People were supposed to avoid The Hunt. Provoking it was most unwise and all the world knew it. 

It was only then that Harry realised that he understood every word although the yeller (and the deceased as well) was clearly speaking Swedish. Curious, must be Hunt magic. 

Berchthold slowly tilted his antlers and the grieving man's head began to swell rapidly. He made a surprised noise, causing the voice from inside to fearfully quarry: “What's happening?”

“What's happening is that these spectres think they're so great, but they're not. Ha, is that all you can do?” His head had swollen to a size so big he could have no longer pulled it back inside if he had wanted to.

The spectacle was grotesque and Harry would have laughed, but his emotions were still raw from the scene he had just witnessed and somewhere inside him, he felt sorry for the bereaved. 

Wolfe sharply inhaled and Harry followed her gaze back to Berchthold, who slowly raised his hand and pointed at the man.

Harry blinked. The man? No, the dog. The red-eared white dog of hell, that now leaned out of the window, paws on the sill. 

“Wow, shit man. But he really had that coming,” cursed Half, shaking his head. 

What had just happened? Had Berchthold really just magicked this yelling man into a dog for his pack? 

The man-dog seemed just as confused. Now, though, he had spotted his sister's newborn on the ground and jumped into the courtyard.

A signal sounded.

“On it goes. Ready, Seeker?” BraveHeart pulled up next to him, looking somehow worn.

The new dog whined and a gurgling sound came from the sleeping baby. 

“Wait, what about the child?” 

“The infant was attached to her mother when she died. She unknowingly took her along when she crossed over. But she didn't take her further, into the next realm. Now this nursling is caught between worlds, sleeping forever. Not dead, but not really alive either, sort of in a coma. It's a real shame.” For once there was no mirth in Half's eyes. 

_“But we can't leave the baby!”_ Harry shrieked, disbelieving his ears.

Wolfe's eyes were red-rimmed and she snivelled. “She isn't dead like us and she isn't old enough to willingly come like you. She doesn't belong with The Hunt. We can't take her. It's her fate. She will sleep until she dies. It will be peaceful.”

“Bullshit!” Harry exploded. 

He was off Lightning's back before anyone else could interfere and scooped up the child. 

“Oh hurry, Seeker, hurry! The Hunt is leaving!” BraveHeart's horse pranced nervously on the spot. “If we miss the connection, we'll be doomed. Come _on_!”

The members of the gang were the only people left in the courtyard, with the majority of the procession already in flight. 

Harry tried hastily to climb back up, but with the bundle in his arms, he couldn't quite manage. He made a decision. “Here, take the baby!” Harry shoved the infant at Ember and leapt onto Lightning. “Hold tight!” And off they went, the transformed dog stuck to their heels. Just in time to catch the last tails of The Hunt. 

*** 

By the first light of morning, Harry was still furious. They'd been riding all through the night and now, at the break of dawn, he continued to give those so-called friends of his the silent treatment. How could they?! They would have just left the helpless baby to fend for itself! 

Half had tried to explain (“It was the infant's time to go.”) and Harry had ignored him.

Wolfe attempted to reason with him (“Those are the rules of nature.”), yet Harry disregarded her.

Even BraveHeart ventured (“Berchthold's word is final, so...”), but Harry didn't want to hear any of it.

He was fuming. 

He was also deeply shaken. The woman, the newborn and the man-turned-dog – it was all too much to take in. And hadn't he planned to leave The Hunt as soon as possible? How could he do that, now that he had taken on the task of looking after a bloody _baby_?

Frustrated, he ran a hand through his unruly hair shifting the flower crown Holle had given him. Then he sighed long and deep and glanced over his shoulder: There was Ember, the big, intimidating boy holding on securely to a sleeping pile of pink wrinkles and tiny toes. He caught his eye and smiled gently.

Much to Harry's astonishment, Ember had been the one to not say a word about the child. He had been keeping it since Harry had shoved it into the his arms; without complaining.

Even more surprising however had been the lack of comment from Holle as she, shortly after departing from the farm, had pulled up next to Lightning and had eyed Harry's foundling with her glowing dog stare for a good long time, before turning her glare to Harry. He'd been sure she would scold him, bark, honk or anything. But she didn't. She just went away, flying on ahead, back to the forefront of The Hunt and left Harry with a certain feeling of unease. 

“Seems like we're landing soon,” said Half desperately. He shot Harry a look. “Oh, come on, Seeker, you can't be mad as us forever.”

Harry stared stubbornly ahead. 

“Alright, how about we make it up to you, yeah?” Half tried again. “We'll all help you take care of the baby.”

“Damn straight you will,” grumbled Harry finally, “and you better give it your best shot.”

“The bestest!” squeaked BraveHeart and the gang smiled quietly, everyone to themselves. None of them liked arguing and all of them had felt bad for attempting to leave the kid. Harry throwing them a bone was a relief, a first step towards reconciliation. 

They were really dipping low now and Harry could make out a low mountain range in the distance.

“Ah~ Home sweet home,” Wolfe purred and leaned forward eagerly. Catching Harry's questioning look, she explained: “We've been here all summer. People in this region really believe in The Hunt. They even named this area 'Holle County'.”

“Actually though,” Half tossed in, “it's called Hoher Meißner. Watch out, we're going down now.”

The Hunt alighted at the banks of a small body of water that looked weirdly like– “Right, Holle's Pond is already back here,” Wolfe nodded.

“Back here?” Harry was struggling with what to make of this new strangeness while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on Ember descending from Lightning's back with the baby in one arm. 

“Oh, can I tell him, can I?” BraveHeart excitement was almost palpable. “Perchta is so cool, she has her personal pond travel with her wherever she goes. Or more precisely, ahead of her. The pond always knows where we will end up staying for a longer while. Isn't that grand?” His eyes behind the mask shone bright with star-struckness. He had this puppy-side to him and Harry found himself mellowing a bit more.

“Here, I'll take the baby,” he said to Ember. 

“It's alright, I can look after her,” the cinder boy didn't even lift his eyes. The tiny infant in his arms seemed just like a porcelain doll compared to her huge charcoaled protector.

Harry's brows furrowed. “How do you know it's a 'her'?”

“I just know.” With that Ember turned away, the man-turned-dog at his heels, leaving Harry unsure about what to do next.

All around him, hunters were getting off their horses and started gathering in small, noisy groups around quickly built camp fires that dotted the surrounding embankment. Soon the snow-dusted conifers were casting shadows in the frosty morning. 

Harry's gaze glued to a singular larger than life-sized wooden statue of a young woman on the far side of the pond.

“Is that supposed to be Holle?” he asked Half who was busy taking the saddle off Gee. 

“Ah, yeah, I guess so.”

"...why is she holding a pillow?" 

"Oh, it's a nod to the old fairy tale of Mother Holle by the Brothers Grimm. Don't you know it?” Half critically eyed the effigy. “But really, anyone who's actually met Perchta would never recognize her in that story. Aside from maybe the letting-it-snow part... and the punishment for baddies, reward for goodies bit."

Harry wanted to ask, but was distracted by the extraordinary sight of Dormarth, the dog, turning into Holle, the hag, in a cloud of fog. The old crone had landed next to Berchthold and now stood up straight, dusting her apron. As he watched, he noticed something he hadn't before: Berchthold's horseman's boots were _on fire_! Holy shit!

Apparently no reason to panic though, as the leader of The Hunt, calmly chatted with Holle.

They were too far away to understand what they were talking about, but Harry spectated at the tiny winged woman holding out her hand to help the giant antlered man down from his eight-legged horse. The moment his hand touched hers, the fire went out. Curious.

“He's devoured by flames,” said Ember gravely, who'd appeared at Harry's shoulder. “A bit like me.”

“Yeah, but he got it worse,” Half added solemnly. “After all, if he ever dismounted without Perchta, he would turn to dust when his feed touched the ground. He's cursed in a way, you know.”

“I didn't. What kind of curse?”

Half shrugged. “I don't know the details. All I know is, he isn't entirely free.”

Harry thoughtfully observed as the giant went to lay down beneath a single oak tree at Holle's Pond's edge. The tree looked just as much out of place as the man. 

“And what's that now?” Harry frowned, pointing at the object next to the sleeper: a big, bulky grey mass with seven dancing lights floating above it. 

“What?” Wolfe had just finished lighting a fire and turned to see what Harry was referring to. “Oh, that is Spillalutsche's Stone.”

“Spi-what-what-what?”

“It's Perchta's house, Seeker!” BraveHeart elucidated happily, while feeding fistfuls of reed to the horses (Lightning was keenest, of course). “She lives under this stone, or in it really. It's so wicked! I wish I had a magical stone house.”

Harry smirked. “Why don't you ask her if she lets you move in with her?”

The excited boy flushed scarlet. “Ah, I, er, I mean – _Seeker_ , come on!” 

The whole group broke into good-natured laughter at the clear embarrassment of the floundering BraveHeart. 

Half, as the mischief-maker he was, took this very moment to start a snowball fight and soon everyone except Ember (who had quickly ducked away, cradling the nursling) was panting and giggling and had snow in unmentionable places.

“It's a draw! Maybe we can make it a duel next time, at Midnight!” Harry laughed, but something tucked at the back of his mind at these words. Midnight duel, there was something. Something...

He couldn't catch the fleeting thought, so he slumped down next to the fire, still breathless. The others joined him, even Snowdrop decided to make an appearance after having fled the scene before, presumably in fear of being hit by a stray snowball. She hooted contentedly as Harry started petting her and nibbled his ear.

“She needs a name,” Wolfe announced.

Harry looked up, confused. “She has a name, her name is Snowdrop. I told you so.”

“Not your owl, silly, your baby,” she said, pointedly looking over at Ember and the sleeping child.

Harry blushed a bit. “She's not _mine_ per se. But I get your point, she should have a name. Ember, what should we call her?”

The sooty babysitter glanced up. “Why... are you asking me?”

“Because, my good boy, Seeker here sees what we all see: You are attached to the kiddo and she (and her dog) to you. So you should dub her.” Half wiggled his eyebrows. “Coal, maybe? Blaze?”

Suddenly the centre of attention, Ember fidgeted uncomfortably. “I... I'm not good with these things. Words and stuff. Seeker, you picked her up, you do it.”

“Nuh-uh, if I do all your homework, how will you learn?” Harry wiggled his index finger and then paused, puzzled. Somehow this didn't sound like him all that much, rather as if he had borrowed someone else's words. 

Ember squirmed and sputtered, getting buried under a flood of name suggestions. Finally, he muttered, so quietly, they almost missed it: “Dreamer.”

“Oh, that's a good name for her,” cooed Wolfe and leant over the baby. “As she will never wake...” Her face fell for a moment. “Well, what about this one then?” She tried to sound cheerful, but everyone heard her swallow. She was gesturing towards the hellhound, lying curled up in a ball at Ember's left knee, eyes on Dreamer.

“Can I name him?” BraveHeart asked energetically. “I have the perfect name: Scoffer!”

The gang dissolved into laughter, while the newly named man-dog Scoffer looked accusingly at them all in turn before putting his head back onto his paws with a huff. 

That reminded Harry of something he had been meaning to ask for a while. He cleared his throat. “Since we're at naming and all, I've been wondering, Wolfe, why is your horse named Binky?”

The snickering girl sobered and turned to look at her black horse. “I'm not completely sure, actually. But I have a feeling that, yeah, it feels like in life I might have owned a pet named Binky? I can't really explain it, but when I first met her, the name popped into my head as if it had been waiting for her.” She shrugged helplessly.

“Aha, so, gut feeling,” summarised Harry, nodding. “And Gee?” He looked at Half.

“Because I'm Half.” For once, the jokester's face was serious. Harry was about to say that he had known _that_ , when the other continued: “When I came to The Hunt, after I had died, I knew that part of me was still alive somewhere. I might look whole, but I just _know_ that the I you see here is only half of who I am. The letter G is connected to my other half somehow, I'm sure. ...and I think, you have met them, this jumper of yours is linked to them, definitely. My heart tells me so.” 

He poked the fire with the same forlorn expression he'd had when looking at Harry's jumper back at the first camp. It was almost physically painful to watch him. 

Well, drastic times call for drastic measures. That Half was sad was Harry's fault and he had to fix it. He pulled the red wool over his head and hesitated. It wasn’t really what he wanted; doing this would give The Hunt more power over him. But Half had been a good friend when he had needed one. 

Harry swallowed and steeled himself.

“Sorry for asking all these silly questions and thank you for taking me in. I don't want to see you sad, so – bye bye Harry, call me Seeker!” An elegant movement and the wonderful piece of clothing went into the fire, making little sparks dance in the wintry air. 

“Why did you do that?” Wolfe screeched, trying unsuccessfully to salvage the garment from the flames. “The nice jumper! Seeker, you idiot!”

But Seeker saw that Half smiled, just a tiny bit, and he nodded at him. For friendship. 

Wolfe calmed down, the conversation drifted to different topics and Seeker's mind wandered. Without his warm outer-layer, he felt a bit chilly and rubbed his arms. The movement made him realise that the dress shirt he'd been wearing underneath his jumper had a breast pocket. 

There was something inside. 

Carefully he pulled out a white rectangle: a handkerchief. How curious. He turned the soft material over in his hands and found that there was a single letter stitched into one of the corners, a capital D. What did that stand for?

He shrugged and tucked the handkerchief back in, not noticing that on his string-bracelet, a second knot had turned red. One knot closer to death. 

*** 

The days had passed like the landscapes. Snow, fog, hail and the storm The Hunt was constantly surrounded by never dampened the mood of the cheerful ghost party. 

Half and Seeker had had several snowball duels by now. Ember and Dreamer were inseparable, always guarded by grumpy Scoffer. Wolfe was singing. BraveHeart was excited. Things had gotten to a point where they had a normalcy feeling to them for Seeker. He'd even gotten used to the cold.

He still wanted to go back home, to his alive life – whatever that entailed. But with each passing day, he found he was a little less motivated to try. It was fun to be free like this, bare of all responsibilities, always surrounded by mirth and laughter. Yes, sure, he would leave the moment they got back to Britain, but until then, why not enjoy this?

“Seeker, guess what day it is today?” Half yelled over, wind tousling his red hair in flight. The setting sun in his back gave him a halo. 

Seeker grinned. “A day for _Half_ -assed jokes?”

“Har dee har. No. It's Epiphany, sixth of January: The Last Ride.”

“Sounds ominous. What's that?” Seeker felt a tickling of excitement.

“It's the last official hunt of the year,” Wolfe said lazily from her lying position on Binky's back, her legs dangling. Seeker wondered why she wasn't afraid to fall off. “See, The Wild Hunt is only in business for the Yuletide give or take, only in winter. For the other three seasons, we camp out somewhere and chill.”

“Like at the Hoher Meißner,” Seeker nodded.

“Yeah, so, this is the final time we're going to do this. For now. Let's enjoy it! Race you through this barn there?” Half was already dashing on with a head start.

Seeker (with Ember and Dreamer) and BraveHeart followed with gusto. 

“Oi, Half, that's not fair! You cheater!” Wolfe scrambled into an upright position, taking pursue of the hollering boys tearing through the sky.

The barn Half had chosen as the goal, had clearly been built on top of an old road, the blurred outlines only just visible still. 

Seeker knew by now that the doors had been left ajar on purpose, so that The Hunt could easily ride through if it wanted to, instead of destroying it while trying.

Flying nip and tuck with Half now, Seeker goaded Lightning to be faster. Just a bit more, just a bit– YES! Seeker rushed first through the doors inside the building, uttering a whoop of joy. 

Adrenaline was flooding him. Wasn't flying just the best feeling in the world? Seeker reached out his hand to brush the ceiling.

In the last rays of the day, the dust inside the old barn sparkled like tiny stars as they rushed past stacks of hay and a dirt-stained farm tractor.

Without reducing the speed, they bolted out on the other side. Which was why it was too late to dodge for the person suddenly standing in the middle of the road outside the house.

 _“Draco!”_ a woman yelled from somewhere out of sight.

“Shit!” Seeker yanked Lightning around at the very last moment, his legs brushing the young man's upper arm as he shot past.

The world slowed down and focused until it was only a pair of wide, grey eyes. Eyes like a storm. For an endless second, Seeker was caught in them.

Then time picked up double-speed and Seeker was already leagues away when he turned his head around to look at the shrinking blond figure, miraculously unharmed and now sinking to the ground. 

Seeker's heart hurt with the sudden want to go back to him, to the boy with the stormy eyes. 

But The Hunt was moving on and so was Seeker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
>  _“Harry’s Theme”_ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bmBE6_gCTww  
> Anne-Sophie Mutter - Rey’s Theme
> 
> This song is more a Harry-with-The-Hunt Theme.  
> It starts mischievous like the participants of The Hunt, playing and partying.  
> Then, mixing in mysterious tones for Holle.  
> The melting violin marks the journey, flying over wide landscapes on horseback.  
> Horns and darker tones for Bertchhold, almost dangerous for those who fear The Hunt.  
> Epic tones for Harry’s epic adventures,  
> ending in quiet doubt about his decisions. 
> 
> **Trivia:**  
>  There's a real Holle's Pond at the Hoher Meißner in Holle County, Germany.  
> https://zeitenreise.net/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/Frau_Holle_Winter-1024x768.jpg


	9. Intermezzo III: One seems to hear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! As promised, this week's chapter is on time.
> 
> Now, I did time this a bit poorly and this flashback chapter is also a bit sad...  
> But there'll be lots of Draco's dry humour and false Potter-names in the next chapter! So, look forward to that.
> 
> However, the next chapter will only be out in the new year, since I'm taking a two-week Christmas break. Expect it around January 11th.
> 
> As always (but this time especially) I would like to thank my nonpareil beta umbrellaless22 for making time in their busy schedule to reassure me and lift me up. 'Thank you' is not nearly adequate. 
> 
> I also would like to thank you, dear readers, for accompanying me so far.  
> This is for you:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1IeDyG-pgM  
> May the next year start as bright for us as the day did for Harry and Draco and may we all have someone to hold our hand.  
> Merry Christmas everyone!  
> See you next year!

Harry woke with a scream, sitting up in his bed. His held his wand in his outstretched hand, shaking ever so slightly, until his brain caught up to the fact that he was safe in his own bedroom in Grimmauld Place and that the war was over. 

He rubbed a hand over his eyes, reached for his glasses and glanced at his alarm clock. Shortly after five in the morning. Great, just great.

He flopped back onto his pillow with a groan.

“Does Master Harry wish some breakfast?” Kreacher had appeared at Harry's bedside, although no one had called for him. 

Harry had the suspicion that the house-elf had somehow put a spell on the bed which told him, whenever his master awoke from a bad dream in the middle of the night. 

“A strong black tea maybe, if you don't mind,” Harry yawned. “I don't think I can sleep anymore. I'll go to Hogwarts, see if I can get some repairs done before Auror training later.”

Kreacher nodded and disappeared from the room, only to start puttering around in the kitchen, the sound travelling through the quiet house.

Harry rolled out of bed, shaking off the remnants of the nightmare. Bad dreams still haunted him almost every night, but he had gotten good at taking his mind off them. 

Since the afternoons in this first week of August were of the blazing hot kind of midsummer, he usually enjoyed the cool mornings. Today though, he shivered as a balmy breeze came in from the window, drying the cold sweat on his forehead. He quickly pulled a Weasley-made cardigan out of his antique wardrobe, fingers brushing his father's Invisibility Cloak, then headed for the stairs. 

He passed the newly furnished private library in the next room which Hermione had insisted he needed. He missed her terribly, her and Ron. But they deserved the Australia round-trip Hermione's parents had invited them on after they had gotten back their real memories. Harry was happy for them.

Trudging through his home, he smiled to himself. _His home._ After he had put so much effort into cleaning and rearranging it, Grimmauld Place really did feel like a home now.

“Your tea, Master Harry,” said Kreacher when Harry entered the kitchen and handed him the atrocious mug Luna had gotten him for his birthday last week: it showed a very blurry snapshot of a DA meeting back in fifth year, Harry was pretty sure Colin had taken.

It was Harry's favourite mug.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, sipping the scalding hot beverage while the little moving people in the photograph on the porcelain scrambled out of the way to not be under his lips. “How about you go back to bed? I won't be back before dinnertime, I think.”

“Very well.”

*** 

The castle lay silent, giving off a somewhat eerie, deserted vibe. Of course no one was here this early in the morning. 

Harry tiptoed into the Entrance Hall, although he could have saved himself the trouble as there was barely anyone living in the school now due to the fact that the whole building continued to be heavily under construction. Still, better safe than sorry. Waking up a few portraits had earned him quite the scolding last time.

The chalkboard listed pending tasks from the day before and Harry half-heartedly chose 'debris removal from the lake'. It didn’t matter what, he just needed something to get his mind off his nightmare.

With a sigh, he headed out to the grounds and down to the banks, yet his feet seemed to have decided on a different destination, away from the crumbled walls and towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest. 

He could see the flickering lights of candles even from afar. Some were spelled to shine forever, like a perpetuum mobile – without outwards energy. Others were kindled daily or weekly by the visitors coming in droves to pay their respects.

Harry hadn't planned on coming here this morning, but maybe seeing the DA at breakfast had subconsciously led him to the memorial site: Fifty white wood crosses in five lines were arranged in a half-circle around a lone white marble tomb, the only real sepulchre with a body inside. 

Harry walked down the aisle between the wooden monuments and stopped in front of the tomb. His thumb brushed the cold marble where once a crack had split it from head to foot. 

“Hello, old man, how are you today?” 

There was no answer of course and Harry turned away with a heavy heart, bracing himself for the onslaught of memories. Yes, here he had sat for Dumbledore's funeral, thinking that his death was the worst loss. And now? Now, fifty of his schoolmates were remembered here. Fifty lives he hadn't been able to save. 

He swallowed. He hated to be here. Yet it somehow comforted him to visit the site. When he walked between the crosses, it was as if he could hear the echoes of their memories.

With a deep breath, hands curled into fists, he started his usual round. By now, he knew every name and everyone's story. He walked down the line, looking at each of the crosses in turn, nodding to them and greeting them like old friends. 

He only stopped in front of a few of them. 

He halted at Lavender's cross in the first line to conjure a bouquet of daffodils (a trick he had Hermione teach him before her travels). Ron had told him in a letter that those had been her favourite. He laid them down next to a picture that showed young Lavender with her pet rabbit Binky in third year. 

Harry snivelled.

He paused for Colin in the second line, reaching out to trace the memento he had left here the other day: a postcard from Sweden in which Dennis had invited Harry to come and spend the holidays at the Creeveys' summer house in Scania. 

Harry's tears fell freely.

He told Tonks and Lupin, side by side in the third line, about little Teddy's achievement of holding his head upright on his own and how Andromeda and him had had tea the other day. 

Harry cried silently.

He stopped at Fred's cluttered cross in the fourth line and put a sample of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' new product on top of a pile of trinkets, some heart-felt, some funny. Fred would have liked the bizarre assembly.

Harry sobbed, face in his hands.

He wept until his tears dried out and he felt hollow, filled with guilt and regret. He wanted to succumb, fall down and mourn them the way they deserved, but the truth was, he was exhausted. Days upon days coming here had made him numb for the pain he should feel. 

Harry wiped his eyes. Time to get some patching done.

He turned to leave the memorial site, when a sudden movement in the fifth line made him jump, wand at ready.

“Morning, Potter,” spoke a shadowy figure in a familiar drawl.

“Malfoy! Jeez. You nearly gave me a heart attack!” Harry put down his wand. “You could have said something.”

“I did. I said 'Morning, Potter',” Malfoy replied, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“I meant before,” Harry huffed. Of bloody course it had to be Malfoy. So they got along alright now, but that didn't mean that Harry wanted him around when he was balancing on the edge of an emotional breakdown. 

The other boy cast his eyes down. “I didn't see you before. Believe it or not, the world doesn't revolve around you, oh Saviour.”

“Don't call me that!” Harry snapped, pain and annoyance jabbing at his insides. “Not here...”

The expression on Malfoy's ghostly pale face, only illuminated by the candles for the dead, turned hard, his gaze flickering towards the crosses.

“Don't be so full of yourself. You're only one person–“ 

“I don't want to hear that!” Harry's anger flared up... 

“–yet you did save me!” ...and died down. Harry blinked. Oh. 

He gulped, suddenly a lump in his throat. “But I couldn't save everyone.”

“You're only one person,” Malfoy said again, but this time his voice was gentle. Then he coughed awkwardly and turned away, averting his eyes. 

Harry fidgeted, looking this way and that. How to have a conversation like that with a former school bully in a sea of death and sadness when it was hard to formulate the words with his friends in the Weasleys' cosy living room? 

He glanced Malfoy's way. Finding him here was a bit unexpected and Harry really didn't know what to make of it. 

“So, who did you come to visit?” asked Malfoy offhandedly.

Harry swallowed. “Everyone.” After a brief pause he added: “And you?”

There was no answer.

Finally, Harry stepped tentatively next to the blond boy and, following the latter's gaze, looked down to the cross in front; Crabbe's cross. 

Ah, yes. That made sense.

“I was surprised they put him here. No, actually, I was surprised they included him in the Fallen Fifty, with what he did as his last deed,” Malfoy said quietly. 

“No one knows about that but you, me, Ron and Hermione. And we didn't tell anyone.” A breeze ruffled Harry's hair and he shuddered involuntarily as the memory of the Fiendfyre resurfaced.

“That was.... very decent of you.” Malfoy's voice had the slightest tremble.

Then he lifted his wand. _“Aguamenti.”_ A small bird bath at the bottom of the monument refilled with water. 

At Harry's raised eyebrow, Malfoy explained with a solemn voice: “I would light a candle but I think he's had enough of fire for an eternity. Plus, the birds keep him company... since no one else does.”

That was right. Crabbe's cross was the barest – no flowers, no pictures, no nothing. Except for the small bird bath. 

“Do you miss him?” Harry heard himself ask.

Malfoy's eyes were unfocussed, staring into the distance. “...sometimes. Potter, I'm not a good person, no one knows that better than you. But _he_ was cruel till the end and he wasn't all that smart and he had a horrid sense of humour... Still, I knew him since we were little kids. And I, I wasn't the good friend he should have had: If I had helped him instead of feeling superior, if I had made him understand that... that...” he choked, brushing vigorously a single tear from his cheek. “The point is: That Vincent lies here is my fault, not yours.”

It was the first time Harry had ever heard anyone call Crabbe by his first name. It was also the first time he'd ever heard Malfoy talk like this – and it somehow made him angry.

 _“That,”_ Harry pointed at the cross, “is definitely not your fault, Malfoy. He made his own decisions. No, don't interrupt me now. He was a dumb little shit and I know, he was your friend, but he was his own person and he died because of what _he_ did, not you, not me. Now, _this_ ,” he pointed at the bird bath, “is your doing and it is lovely. End of story.”

Malfoy took a deep breath. 

“Don't talk back to me! I said 'end of story'.”

The other boy snapped his mouth shut. “As you wish, Potter Perfect.”

Harry didn't know if you should feel insulted or relieved. 

“But then you should listen to your own advice, Potter. _They_ are not _your_ fault either.” Malfoy made an arm gesture that encompassed the whole memorial site. "Don't put it on your conscience."

There was a moment of heavy silence hanging between them, then Harry, grasping for a change of topic, ventured: “So, do you always come visit this early?”

Malfoy shook his head. “I had a nightmare. Couldn't fall asleep afterwards.”

“Ah, yeah, er, me too,” Harry admitted, suppressing a yawn. 

“Not too late to go back to bed, Potter. You need the beauty sleep.” Malfoy grinned the tiniest grin.

Alright, if he wanted to play it this way. “Nah, I can't let you be the only one looking like shit.”

Malfoy made an undignified noise and pulled an exaggerated sulky face, which made Harry smile involuntarily.

“It's almost sunrise. Want to watch it together?”

“Why, Potter, first candle light, now sunrise – are you inviting me on a date?”

“Only if sitting by the lake qualifies as such.” It was supposed to be cheeky, but Harry felt himself flush. Date. Why did Malfoy have to phrase it like that? And why couldn't Harry ever back down?

Was it his imagination or had Malfoy also turned slightly pink?

“Don't get ahead of yourself.” The former Slytherin had already started marching down to the lakeside and Harry quickly followed.

They were sitting down side by side at the bank, next to the tomb, their silhouettes reflected in the dark waters. 

The Eastern sky was already very bright, when Harry at a sudden impulse slowly reached out to take Malfoy's cold hand in his. After a moment, Malfoy squeezed his fingers back, both of them finding comfort in the other's presence. 

The sun came up. A new day started for two young men, sitting hand in hand at a lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GlZ5WdXswEQ  
> Elliot Moss - 99
> 
> A song for the Hogwarts Fallen Fifty.


	10. Chapter 6: O'er hill and dale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> I hope you all arrived safely in 2021. This is gonna be our year, you'll see.
> 
> Big news - the 2021 Mimbelwimbel Award for Most Entertaining Live Beta-Tweeting goes to... umbrellaless22! Wohoo~
> 
> Wow, half-time O.O  
> Now, if you feel particularly generous, how about leaving a comment as a belated Christmas present?  
> Tell me what you think? I would so love to hear from you.
> 
> Cheerio~

Draco stretched his arms over his head. He was exhausted. Another dead end. 

For almost two weeks now, he and the Golden Couple had been chasing traces of and rumours about The Hunt – from one country to the next – with varying success: Sometimes they found people who claimed to have heard this (or seen that; but those were lying time-wasters as Draco knew all too well), other times they found hints that a big group could have camped in the area, but mostly, they returned home disappointed. 

Today, the lead had been promising: A Muggle in Switzerland had told a local newspaper (that Granger had somehow unearthed, she really was a clever girl, Draco had to give her credit) that in most years, the _Guenisheer_ AKA The Wild Hunt would visit his barn due to the fact that it had been built on top of an old road. Such buildings were often in danger of being torn down by the riders. 

The inhabitants of this region had learned to keep both doors open though, for the ghost procession to travel through harmlessly. Or so the owner of the barn claimed, because all Draco and company had found were fields and hay and not a single sign of supernatural shenanigans, the hunting kind or otherwise.

He rubbed his eyes and suppressed a yawn. 

While he had been sleeping better these last days in the old Black house than the whole past year, the worry about not finding Potter kept him jumping out of bed at night, looking for more clues in the mountains of books and papers that cluttered his new library. 

Now, with mixed feelings, he watched Granger and the Weasel who were hand-in-hand eyeing farming equipment in the distance. It was helpful to have them around, especially the witch, but it was also still strained at times, especially between the two wizards.

Ever since that morning as Granger had wished the boys 'a happy Three Kings' Day' (as it was the sixth of January), her redheaded wastrel of a boyfriend had had nothing better to do than to refer to the three of them as kings and mock Draco, calling him 'Your Majesty' in that particular tone that meant 'You Git'. Draco had stayed stoic (for Potter!), but inwardly it gnawed at him that he had to put up with something as childish as this. Well, Weasley _was_ a child after all. Hmpf. 

The sun was setting and spilled a flood of orange gold over the rolling hills. It was getting late. 

With one last look at the lovey-dovey couple (ugh), Draco made for the barn once more. One final circumnavigation would do.

He stepped in front of the open doors, glancing inside, as he heard the clamour.

He had less than a second warning, when–

 _“Draco!”_ Granger yelled from afar.

“Shit!” A crowned rider on a flying palomino horse missed Draco by a breath, the rider's legs brushing Draco's upper arm as he shot past.

For an endless second, the impact of the sudden appearance froze Draco in place, rendering him unable to move, to talk, to blink. All he could do was stare at Harry green-eyes-black-hair-glasses bloody Potter, eye-to-eye. Eternal. Gone.

The fact that several (vaguely familiar?) ghost riders followed shortly in Potter's wake, scooting around Draco in most adventurous ways in order not to hit him, he only noticed hazily. Through his own shock, the riders’ speed and the sudden onset of dense snow, Draco couldn’t make out any faces anyway.

And while he didn't care for the noise, the storm, the flurry or the horde riding ahead over the barn, somewhere deep down, a part of him registered that he was still here, not taken. Subconsciously, Draco had used his research knowledge and had kept standing still in the middle of the old road, where people are said to be safe from The Hunt. 

But his own well-being was secondary at the moment, because...

Potter. 

That was Potter, Potter, Potter...

Draco had to save him, call out to him. 

He tried to turn around, but his legs gave way under him and he sank to the ground.

His brain malfunctioned. 

_He... had missed him._

“Oh my god, Malfoy, are you okay?” People knelt next to him. Someone shook Draco's shoulder. 

_He had missed him._

“Hermione, what's wrong with him?” a worried voice said, redoubling the shaking of the Draco.

_He had MISSED him._

“I think he might be in shock. Look, his eyes are totally unfocussed.”

 _He had missed Potter._

“Yeah, makes sense. That sounded bloody scary when they came down. Honestly, even if he hadn't told us to cover our eyes, I don't think I would have looked, just in case, you know. Good thing he is such a cleverclogs – staying in the middle of the road might have saved him, don't you reckon? According to the lore and all. But, Draco?”

 _...missed Potter._

“I mean, yeah. I was worried, alright? It was in the spur of the moment. Anyway, I guess we better take him back home, maybe to St. Mungo's?” 

_...Potter._

“You don't gather they did something to him, do you? He looks really rattled. They didn't, like, take his soul or something?”

_…Harry..._

“I don't think so. It's The Wild Hunt not Dementors, Ron.”

Draco could have just grabbed him. He had been _right there_. If only Draco had grabbed him...

That was when Draco snapped and dissolved into hysterical sobs, leaving both his companions helplessly floundering around, trying to console him. 

But nothing would console Draco today. He had found The Hunt. He had found Potter – and he had missed holding onto him.

Crying wouldn't help though. Crying only made people weak. 

Draco already lost Potter today, he could not stand to lose face as well. Especially not in front of _them_. 

He staggered to his feet, bit his lip to stop it from trembling, forced his features back under his Malfoy-mask and said with the haughtiest voice he could manage: “I'm alright, just a tiny scare. Not to worry. Now, I think, I can handle the rest of the research by myself.” 

Protesting noises from the other two.

Draco sniffed. “Your assistance was helpful but is no longer necessary. Good day, Granger, Weasel.” 

And before either of the addressed could do any more than gape at him, Draco had fled the place of his defeat. 

*** 

“Howard, come here, good kitty-kitty!” Draco crooned, trying to coax the cat out from under the kitchen counter of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. 

Warm March sun was sprinkling the tiles this Monday morning, it was going to be a good spring day; if only that damn animal would come out already!

Draco sighed and grabbed for the cat treats. He really was spoiling the beast. 

Black fur and green eyes, Draco had found Howard, a stray, dumpster-diving in one of Rome's many side-streets. He'd been a malnourished and flea-ridden little thing. Overall not a nice sight, but the resemblance to a certain Boy Who Got Himself Lost had won Draco over and he had taken him home and named him Harry (because he was _hairy_ , no other reason). The only problem was that every morning, Draco had forgotten what he had dubbed his new pet, so that he had finally given in and chosen a congeneric name: Howard; nasty, common name.

Eagle, Draco's owl, had not been best pleased about the new family member. Howard, however, had instantly understood that it was way more fun to be served food than to catch it. Eventually this had led to the bird and the feline taking to a tentative friendship which had now evolved into a full-blown acceptance that often found the two of them snuggling on a windowsill during midday.

Draco had not planned on getting a cat. He had only been in Rome in the first place because he had been following a lead towards a source about the _Caccia Morta_ , The Wild Hunt. But that hadn't brought anything truly new. 

He was travelling a lot these days, chasing clues and rumours. One day looking for details on the _Oskorei_ in Norway, the next day visiting Poland for hints on the mysterious _Pusch-Grohla_. He was Portkeying all over the world hunting The Hunt in libraries, museums and old people's tales.

The private library next to his bedroom was full to the brim with dozens of dictionaries in different languages, allowing Draco to use the full potential of his brain and learn bits and pieces of several new tongues simultaneously. He often sat in there, comparing this version and that, until late into the night, with Howard curled up in Draco's lap, purring. At least that darn cat was good for _something_. 

Other than lying in Draco's bed, staring at the opposite wall, where Draco had hung a huge world map and colour-coded countries and information, strings going up and down the globe, connecting pins.

Despite it being months now, he had not given up yet. Yes, it was bothersome and yes, it went slowly, not much novel knowledge dribbling in from the few sources he could find. The important thing however was that there still _were_ sources, there still _was_ new information to unearth. 

For the first time in years, he was hopeful when he rolled out of bed. 

That was good. Especially after those devastating days in January, following the disastrous encounter with Potter and The Hunt. Draco had been so embarrassed and severely distraught about the fact that he had not been able to free the Chosen One during that occasion that Draco had rolled up in bed and done nothing for the next three days straight, ignoring food as well as numerous letters from the Golden Couple. 

Seeing Potter back there, even for a second, had touched a chord inside Draco that had since not stopped singing him sweet-sad melodies. Like sirens, wonderful and deathly. Also, very confusing. 

On the fourth day, Granger had stormed in unannounced and had emptied a bucket of ice water over his head, proceeding with giving him a piece of her mind that had his ears ringing. Weasley had been standing by, snickering silently until the girl had turned to scold him too, for being insensible. Which really had lifted Draco's mood more than the preceding telling-off. 

Still, it had taken all of Draco to get out of bed that day and even more so not to crawl right back in once they had found out that the traditional appearance period of The Wild Hunt typically ended on January 6th. They would have to wait for the next Yuletide to come around to find the ghost riders again. Which meant, Potter would have to stay with The Hunt for a whole year. 

Draco had felt like letting go that night. 

But he hadn't, because Potter was the reason. 

Instead Draco had lunged head-first into deeper research, making it his goal to find out all there could be possibly known about the lore, so to be prepared next Christmas and snatch Potter back (maybe even earlier than winter time?).

For that purpose, Draco was now having little rituals. 

For one, he had placed an assortment of pots on his bedside table – teapots, cooking pots, flower pots – so that he would see them and remember Potter the moment he woke up. Furthermore, he had started to collect all kinds of pottery and placed them all over the house, for the same purpose.

He had also found a dusty remembrance between the pages of an old school book Weasley had brought from the Manor's library. It was the joke badge from back in fourth year. However, where it once had said _POTTER STINKS_ , there now was nothing and the words on the front never changed, redly glowing their _Support CEDRIC DIGGORY – the REAL Hogwarts Champion!_

Draco had shuddered at the unwelcome reminder of the dead schoolmate and had been about to throw the thing out as an idea had occurred to him. He then had taken to wearing the badge daily as a memento, another ritual.

These days, when he looked into the mirror and saw the flashy accessory, he willed himself to remember the bits he normally omitted: biting his nails during Potter's turn in the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, secretly betting on Potter during the second task and tearing up from relieved anxiety after the third task. It wasn't that Draco had wanted Diggory dead, but what if Potter had died instead...? Not that the idiot hadn't tried to get himself killed _every year_ that he had been at Hogwarts... When Draco would finally get Potter back from The Hunt, Draco would forbid him to _ever_ set foot onto the grounds again. No more Hogwarts for you, Mister!

Lastly, as far as “rituals” went, Draco had picked up one that he only practised when he was alone, because it would be too embarrassing otherwise: Since Draco nowadays spent hours upon hours of reading, cross-referencing, translating, writing, researching and such, he had found himself squinting more and more often until he had to admit that he needed reading spectacles. 

He had stood a solid hour in front of the display, driving the shop assistant mental and in the end had picked a pair of old-fashioned round glasses. Potter-style. Not that he liked the unsightly things (or the boy usually wearing them, heaven forbid), but they served as a reminder. Like the badge, the pots, the pottery and Howard.

Yet wearing the glasses in front of _other people_ would be too much. So he only put them on in the wee hours of the day, when the fire was burning low and his back hurt from sitting too long in the same position. They were his secret.

Once in research-mode, Draco was usually relentless. Good thing Kreacher had interpreted Draco's order (to go to Hogwarts to help with the repairs) loosely and popped in from the castle every now and then to make some food, do the dishes, the laundry and cleaning. 

Only Sunday's were free of The Hunt, since Draco used those to be a Hogwarts-Patcher again. He hadn't forgotten about the duty he thought he had towards the school. Also (and he would _not_ say that out loud), being there made him feel closer to Potter somehow. 

Not that there was a lack of Potter-related things in Draco's life. The Golden Couple sure was a reminder as loud as they came, especially the Weasel.

Since The Hunt would in all probability only appear again in December, Granger and Weasley had jumped off the daily-research-train. Instead the three of them had agreed on a weekly meeting on Wednesdays. 

During one of these sessions, they had discussed why Potter hadn't left The Hunt back then and just went home with them.

“Once you join The Hunt, you become part of it. I don't think he had a choice," Granger had explained and it had made sense to Draco.

They also had found out that The Hunt's leader had, among his many names, also the alias of Siegfried, the famous dragon slayer. A fact that had caused the Weasel to speculate about Draco's chances to best the spectre. That could have easily turned into a fight if it hadn't been that very moment that Granger, by now deaf to the boys' constant bickering, had read out loud that _“Siegfried is said to use an Invisibility Cloak”_. 

That had given Draco pause.

“A what now?”

“An Invisibility Cloak,” the witch had repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

“...no reason.” 

To this day, Draco didn't know why he hadn't shared his discovery then. Why he hadn't told them about the cloak he had found in the wardrobe of his bedroom when he had moved into Grimmauld Place. It had just felt like something private.

That particular Wednesday had passed and many more followed. The strictly-business research meetings had slowly turned into research meetings and dinner into research meetings, dinner and a game – or a moo-vee, once the Golden Couple had moved in together and had awkwardly invited Draco over. 

The Weasel always thought it hilarious when Draco came to theirs and figuratively tripped over the manifold Muggle contraptions in their London flat (why on earth had all these Muggle vehicles a name and why were they _all_ called Carl?). Even though the redhead was just as bad as Draco (he'd seen the ginger talk to the my-crow-wife), Granger fondly rolled her eyes at both of them an equal amount of times.

Draco smiled thinking about it and turned towards the counter once more: “Come here, Howard! Who is a good kitty?” 

The cat didn't move. Stubborn like his namesake.

Instead, a feathered cannonball shot through the open kitchen window and fell into Draco's half-eaten breakfast.

“Pig?” 

Weasley's tiny owl hooted delightedly and landed on Draco's shoulder, splashing porridge everywhere.

“Ugh! Seriously?” 

Pig made owly eyes at him.

“Yeah, alright. Good job, you. Have at it then,” Draco sighed and fed the bird a piece of toast, which he happily munched while Draco unfurled the attached scroll with a frown.

It read _'Pop over ASAP'_ in Weasley's zigzag scrawl.

Today was Monday not Wednesday, so... had to be something important.

Draco waved his wand to clean himself up, grabbed onto the owl and Apparated right into the Golden Couple's kitchen.

*** 

“Er, Malfoy, we didn't mean immediately under _all_ circumstances,” was the Weasel's greeting.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the redhead. “Excuse me?”

“Morning, Draco. Ron just meant, you would absolutely still have had time to, er, change before coming over,” said Granger (who now sometimes had the audacity to call Draco by his first name as if that was normal) and folded a Muggle newspaper. “Want some breakfast?”

Draco blinked and then slowly gazed down his body. A moment later, he really, really wished, he hadn't and blushed scarlet. He was still wearing his pyjamas. The childish Hogwarts ones no less.

He groaned and released the wriggly Pig from his grip. “Just a cup of tea, if you please. And then tell me why I rushed over here first thing this morning.”

He sat down at the table, Crookshanks jumping onto his lap with an often-practised routine from Wednesday dinners. Draco had somehow become a cat person. Huh.

“There was a call for you,” Granger informed him while pouring Draco a cuppa, “from that Swedish Muggle library you went to last month. It was on the answering machine when we came home yesterday.”

Hand outstretched to receive the china, Draco froze. 

While digging deeper into the lore, they had found out that The Wild Hunt was by no means a purely magical occurrence. Rather was it known in the Muggle society just as well as in the wizarding world. Both otherwise so strictly opposite groups had very similar stories when it came to The Hunt, starting by the fact that all believed them to be superstition and nothing else. Of course there were still many different versions to sort through, but the core elements never really changed.

With that in mind, Draco had not only eaten humble pie in front of all the wizarding families he could imagine to have a private library, to grant him entrance (not many responded, but he was still on it) but also expanded his search into the unknown – the world of public Muggle libraries.

Later he had added to the list of information sources also Muggle museums and other such places.

Surprisingly, it had been Weasley who had come up with the idea to leave a standing message at the reception desks of those institutions, so that anyone also inquiring about details of The Wild Hunt should be asked to contact Draco. 

Sometimes the redhead _did_ have some good thoughts. _Sometimes._

As Muggles could hardly send Draco an owl, Granger had agreed to hand out the Weasel and her foh-n number for the purpose. 

Draco hadn't _really_ believed in anything coming out of it and so far, it hadn't.

Until now.

"You should call them back," Granger interrupted his musings. 

Draco looked slightly ill as his lips formed the words 'call back' and she rolled her eyes: "Alright, I'll show you." She checked her watch. “We are one hour back, so it should be alright to call now, don't you think? That suits me fine, I still have some S.P.E.W. stuff to do later on.”

The boys exchanged exasperated looks over the kitchen table. 

As Draco had learned, the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare was a hobby Granger had taken up back in their school days. Now, due to her status as war heroine, the movement had evolved quite a bit, so that it kept Granger rather busy with charity events and promotions. 

While Draco treated Kreacher nicer than he had ever treated any house-elf, because Draco tried to turn over a new leaf, he secretly thought that rights for house-elves were nonsense (they liked serving, so what?). But he had taken to following Weasley's lead whenever Granger started S.P.E.W.ing and silently nodded along to her ramblings. He even joined, albeit rather reluctantly and only because he knew that Granger could get any job she wanted, yet she had chosen to be without one for the time being to assist her parents, do S.P.E.W. things and last but not least, help him look for Potter.

Draco forced himself to a polite smile: “Sounds lovely, Granger. Shall we then?”

“Yes.” Her face turned matter-of-fact as she got up and motioned Draco to follow her over to a little Muggle contraption on the sideboard. She seemingly broke off a piece (gasp!) and offered it to Draco. 

“This is our phone. As I explained to you before, it works somewhat like a Floo call: You can talk to someone who is far away. Now, you hold it like so,” she demonstrated putting the thing next to her face and Draco cringed, because if it was like Floo the flames would certainly burn him this way, “one end towards your mouth, one towards your ear. And then you just talk.”

“Yeah, and don't shout,” Weasley grinned, leaning onto the counter next to them.

Draco sniffed haughtily and straightened his back. “Who would shout into a Floo call?”

Apparently the Weasel, as he turned redder than his hair. He was saved from answering however when Granger picked up a piece of note paper and started pushing little numbered buttons on the foh-n. 

Draco felt a bit panicky. This would hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut, clutching the device tightly. Anything for Potter.

Ring. Ring. 

Draco blinked. It didn't hurt at all. No fire. How strange.

The conversation with the female librarian was short: A local farmer had come by the other day and asked the same questions Draco had. The man had agreed to leave an address for Draco to reach him. 

“Tack så mycket.” Draco handed the foh-n piece to Granger. 

“You speak Swedish?” Weasley seemed reluctantly impressed which brought Draco unexpected glee. He still felt a bit jittery from the foh-n-experience. 

“By now I speak _European_ , Weasel. I'm a walking dictionary.” That was only a small exaggeration, really.

Granger huffed and rolled her eyes. Again. That was turning into a habit. “Well, what did they say?”

“They gave me an address where a Mr. Withane lives who also looks for information on The Hunt. It's a long shot. It might just be curiosity for him. But I need to try and find out if he knows something. I'll see that I can find a Portkey over there for tomorrow.” 

The ginger scratched his face. “Make it a Portkey for three then. Round of Exploding Snap, Ferret?”

“You're on.”

*** 

Draco nervously smoothed down his coat. No matter how many times he wore the Muggle clothes Granger had picked out for him for his research outings, he felt colossally underdressed and uncomfortable. Especially those G'n'S that were so tight against his legs he felt as though he were going naked with the way they snugly sat on his hips. Draco would have almost been tempted to believe these pants were Granger's misguided way of flirting (perish the thought!), had he not seen Weasley wearing a matching pair. They must have been on sale. 

Nowadays, to Draco's growing concern, it seemed that he was finding more and more things he and the Weasel had in common. Great, just great. 

“Are you ever going to knock?” Weasley shifted from one foot to the other. “It's bloody cold out here.”

The address of the farmer they had received from the library lady via foh-n the other day had turned out to be a thatched roofed farmhouse with a narrow courtyard surrounded by fields. There was a Carl vehicle parked next to the building. Definitely Muggle. 

Draco took a deep breath and knocked. Speaking with Muggles was still not easy for him. He often spluttered and grappled with everyday words (heir-plain was a hate-word of his but often came up). At least today he would have Granger as a help.

For a while, there was no sound from inside the house and Draco was just about to knock again, when faint footsteps could be heard and the door was opened.

A haggard-looking man in his mid-twenties opened the door. With his ruffled clothes, his unkempt dark hair and the dark bags under his eyes, he reminded Draco of Potter right after the war. 

This man here must have been fighting a battle of his own, so Draco would have to be extra polite: “Hej, jag heter Draco Malfoy. Ah, talar du Engelska?”

The man blinked: “Javisst. I mean, yes, I speak English. What do you want?”

“Mr. Withane? We're here to talk about The Wild Hunt with you.”

For a moment it seemed as if Mr. Withane was going to shut the door in their faces, but then he opened it and moved back a bit. “Come in.”

They followed him down a hallway into a big, slightly chaotic kitchen where he collapsed onto a chair, dropping his head into his hands, elbows on the dinner table. 

The trio exchanged silent looks and then sat down as well. 

Draco cleared his throat: “Ahem, so, we wanted to ask you what you know about The Wild Hunt.”

A long silence, then, muffled: “A lot and nothing at all. Nothing that will bring her back anyway.”

Draco pricked up his ears. “Bring whom back? Did they take someone from you?”

At that, the man finally looked up. “My daughter,” he said with a hoarse voice.

Following these words were immediate reactions: While Draco's thoughts flew towards excitement that he had finally found someone who might know something, Granger's hand flew to cover her mouth as Weasley flew out of his chair and hastily started ransacking the room for a kettle and cups. 

“Just _what_ are you _doing_?” asked Draco bewildered.

“Making tea. Mum always says it's best to talk about calamities over a cup of hot tea. Makes it all better. Now how do you do this?” The redhead fiddled with the oh-when. 

Granger, smiling gently, went to assist him, while the owner of the kitchen just stared at the couple as if they were insane. Then he sighed heavily and said, waving a hand: “Brew a cup of coffee for me then.” Which they did. 

Coffee, really, those uncouth continentals.

When finally all four of them sat around the table again, steaming beverages in front of each, they picked up the conversation anew. 

“So, what happened to your daughter? Did she get kidnapped and no one remembers her but you?” Draco asked, trying to look sympathetic, but inwardly bouncing with impatience.

“No...” the farmer said and furrowed his brows. “This isn't a joke somehow, is it? Because I swear, if you–“

“Not a joke!” Granger squeaked. “We just assumed. Since that is what happened to our friend... Parfay?” (“Potter.”) “And we thought it might be the same for you.”

“So your friend Pepper got kidnapped and that's why you're here,” the man nodded.

“Yes, we need to find him. Can you help us? Oh, but his name is Potter.”

“Is it important that he's a potter? Does it matter what your friend works as?” 

Draco suppressed a groan and put on his game-face. Not that pun again. “He does not _work_ as a potter, his _name_ is Potter and no, his occupation is not important. Now, will you tell us your story or not?”

Weasley soundly opened a notebook that Granger had shoved at him. He positioned a weird-looking Muggle writing tool over the paper as it was his turn to take notes.

“Alright, alright. I... it just hurts to talk about it. Look,” Mr. Withane reached for a framed picture on the windowsill, “this is... was my wife. She died giving birth to our daughter. When she left, it felt like she took a piece of my heart with her.” He swallowed and Draco found himself mirroring the movement. It was as if this stranger said Draco's most secret thoughts about Potter out loud. “I thought I would die, too. Of broken heart. Yet I knew I had to be strong for our baby girl. I tried so hard to be a good father. I still do, but I'm sure now, the _Odensjakt_ took her away.” 

Granger looked up, dismayed. “My condolences.” 

The Weasel solemnly nodded his as well. “That is tough. Sorry for upsetting you.”

The widower in turn titled his head in appreciation.

Draco felt sorry for him, he did, but he also needed answers. “Now, how do you spell O-od- that word you just said?”

“ _Odensjakt._ O-D-E-N-S-J-A-K-T,” dictated Granger, but her eyes were on their host. “Does that come from Odin, the god of thunder and lightning?”

The man shrugged. “Could be.”

“I'm confused,” Draco cut in before Granger could dive into explaining all about this Odin. That could take hours. “Did your daughter get stolen or not? Because it sounded like she was still here with you, but now you say they've taken her?”

The farmer looked at Draco with an unreadable expression, then he pushed himself from the table. “Come. I'll show you.”

He led them upstairs into a small nursery with pastel-coloured walls and a sleeping baby in a cradle by the window.

“This is–“ 

“DON'T!” Weasley shouted suddenly, making them all jump. “If you say her name, we'll forget her!”

“Ronald!” Granger hissed, slapping her boyfriend onto the upper arm. “Don't yell like that in a sleeping baby's room! You'll wake her.”

“No, he won't,” said the father softly and let a hand drop down to his daughter's where she wrapped her tiny fingers around his. “Nothing can wake her. That's the thing. The Wild Hunt as you call them, they took her soul while she was sleeping and now she doesn't wake up. Ever.”

“That is... really sad. I'm sorry for your loss, truly. But if you don't mind me asking, how do you know it was The Hunt that snatched your daughter's soul?” Draco bit his lip. He was starting to worry that this was another dead end or worse completely unrelated to Potter's case at all.

“Because I heard them,” Mr. Withane frowned, “...because...the window was open somehow. I remember calling, that it was The Hunt, though I guess in all the commotion, I have forgotten who I was talking to at that moment. Anyway, I heard them say: _'But we can't leave the baby'_. That's why I know. They took her.”

The three teenagers that had lived through a war and had lost friends and family understood all too well, how the grieving father felt. 

All of them were absorbed in their own thoughts, when their host walked them back to the front door. 

He only stopped once, briefly, to indicate a completely empty chamber. “This room here as well... there is something about it. I can't recall why it's so bare. It feels like maybe the _Odensjakt_ has taken more than just my daughter. As if there is another piece – another person? – missing. There are things that make no sense, as though parts of my memory were incomplete...”

Draco nodded solemnly. “That's how it works. I promise you though, when I find Potter I'll do my best to get you your daughter back.” He was aware of the thoughtful looks he was receiving from both of his research companions.

“Thank you. I appreciate it. You lot coming here has given me hope when I had almost lost it all. I will hold on – and of course I'll let you know should I find out anything else.”

They shook hands on that promise and then said their goodbyes. 

*** 

Before their Portkey back to London went, they had settled on a stripe of beach. The weather was grey like their moods, the water cold like that lead and the birds flying overhead fought the stiff breeze like the trio with their thoughts. 

Draco skipped stones frustratedly, while Granger had sat down on a piece of grass with a warming charm.

“Well, that was a flop, wasn't it?” Weasley dropped down next to the witch.

“Why did you even come, Weasel?” Draco snapped, annoyed with the whole situation. It had all started out so well but in the end they only had one more person to look for and zero new information.

“I needed a day at the beach with my girlfriend,” the redhead tried to joke and put an arm around Granger who smiled tight-lipped. “Actually, yeah, maybe I did. I wanted a break, away from the shop. It's fun to work with George, but it's harder than you would think, to run a store.” 

Draco skipped some more stones. “I'm surprised it's still standing, with you in charge.” 

The ginger looked offended, but then he grinned. “Natural talent, Ferret. Apropos, we are thinking of opening another store and we are still searching for a manager – want to interview for the position? Of course then _I_ would be your boss.” He wiggled his eyebrows. 

Draco was startled by the sudden change in conversation and eyed Weasley warily. There had been an underlying tone of seriousness in the other boy's voice that made Draco believe that this was a genuine offer. 

No one had given him any hope for employment, so he pondered about it for a moment. Working for the Weasel, that thought was grotesque. Yet, somewhat alluring... a real job, a real purpose, earning his own money, clean from any Death Eater relations... 

But no, right now, his life did have a real purpose already: Finding Potter was more important than anything. Draco would look for work once he got Potter back, just a matter of time. 

“A weasel and a ferret as co-workers? That wouldn't go well for a _day_. But thanks anyway. I appreciate it,” Draco ended awkwardly, not meeting the ginger's eyes.

Weasley nodded as if he knew exactly what Draco had _not_ said and turned to Granger: “Hermione, are you okay? You're so quiet.”

“Just thinking.” She tugged at her lip. “By the way, you were wrong, Ron. We wouldn't have forgotten her.”

Both boys stared at her nonplussed. 

“Great. Maybe some context, Granger?”

“What? Oh.” The girl looked up, jolted out of her reverie. “Right, sorry. I meant: Remember when we came into the nursery and Ron shouted for us not to say the baby's name so that we wouldn't forget about her?” Simultaneous nods. “Yeah, that wouldn't have happened.”

“But that's exactly how it is every time Malfoy starts talking about Popcorn.”

“Right, but it's not like that for her. She is not like Puffel. For a lack of better categories – she is not the same 'ghost type', so Hunt magic works differently on her.”

“Ghost type,” Draco repeated flatly and caught Weasley's eye, who shrugged. 

“Yes, ghost types. You know, because not all ghosts are the same? Actually, not all we perceive as ghosts are ghosts at all, so the phrasing 'ghost type' might be misleading.” Her gaze wandered from one blank face to the next and she sighed exasperatedly. “Seriously? You both lived your whole life in a world filled with magic and never once wondered about the different types of apparitions and spirits? I mean, even in Hogwarts alone there are several distinct sorts of spectres. Honestly, sometimes I think you all just want to take the mickey out of me.”

She shook her head. “Alright, listen up: For one, there are the _normal ghosts_ – remnants of people who died and stayed behind, because they felt they still had something important to do here, maybe lingering regrets. They are incorporeal. That is the ghost type we met at school in the form of the house ghosts for example.”

Draco nodded. A no-brainer so far.

“Contrary to that the ghosts riding with The Hunt are _Hunt ghosts_ , let's call them that – they don't really have left-over business, but still feel an attachment to the living, mostly because they died at a young age. They are offered a position amongst the riders and once they have accepted it, The Hunt's own magic makes them corporeal so they can for example grab people, like Palfrey. They take on the purpose of The Hunt. Both of these types are usually just referred to as 'ghosts' by wizards and Muggles alike.” 

Granger took a deep breath and went on with the lecture: “However, there are several apparitions people think are, or confuse with, ghosts. The most common are _poltergeists_ which resemble normal ghosts, but are indeed not really even ghosts. Rather they are the embodiment of accrued anger and frustration materialized in a human-shaped form, with the sole function of releasing stress by haunting. They are incorporeal of sorts, but can move objects. That's why Peeves always destroys things, as he is all of Hogwarts' residents' annoyance put together.”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on. Peeves is not a dead person?” Weasley's eyes were wide as saucers and Draco silently wondered how he himself never knew all that. These were indeed 'eye-openers'. 

“Of course not. He never was alive – or human. Same goes for a number of 'afterimages' that could be deemed as ghost-like. First and foremost, moving portraits – _portrait ghosts_ are not real ghosts but instead snapshot pieces of the painted people's personality. Roughly, they only know what the original live model knew within the short time span during the production of the painting. Portraits may seem like it, but they don't possess the full-fledged character of the portrayed. Therefore, we could walk into the Headmistress' office and talk to a piece of Professor Dumbledore or Professor Snape, but they are frozen in a thought bubble. They will never have new ideas, as they are not the real professors, only mere mimicries. Likewise are photographs or other moving pictures, but to an even weaker amount. Still with me?”

“Yes,” Draco nodded who had sat down next to her in the sand, “go on.” He needed her to fill his head with cluttering information quickly to shove away the painful thoughts that had unbidden emerged at the mention of their former headmasters. 

“Don't encourage her!” Weasley hissed feebly, but he still paid rapt attention as Granger continued after a sharp side-glance at the ginger.

“As I was saying, there is more than one type of ghost-like afterimages... although my other examples are extremely rare and I must admit my musings about them are mostly based on hear-say. First there is the unlikely event that a _Priori Incantatem_ (that creates sort of echoes of previous spells) meets an earlier used killing curse and creates a somewhat solid copy of the murdered person, a _Priori Incantatem ghost_. These ghost-like shades are, from what I gather, similar to portraits in their boundaries of real characterization. Their actions, once conjured, appear to go along with the dead person's last wish or thought and have the spectre act accordingly.” 

She frowned. “I wonder where I heard about a case like this? I really don't remember... Maybe from Purple? Anyway, the other, even rarer case, is–“ she suddenly paused to give Draco a scrutinising once-over and he felt very much on trial; for what now, he wouldn't know. 

“Er, is something the matter?” he asked nervously. “I didn't say anything.”

Weasley looked a bit dazed, as if shaken from a dream. He turned to Granger, eyebrows drawn up in question. 

“I guess we can tell you. After all, it's not like you could do anything with the knowledge: So another form of ghost-like afterimage is created by the Resurrection Stone. You might have heard about it, if you are familiar with 'The Tale of the Three Brothers'.”

Draco huffed. “Sure, that is a fairytale. Three brothers get three gifts from Death: the Cloak of Invisibility that makes you invisible even to Death himself, the Resurrection Stone that can bring back dead people and the Elder Wand that is said to be an invincible wand. Two brothers waste their gifts and die, but one doesn't and bests Death. Right? But no one in their right mind would believe that the things like that truly exist. I mean, except for maybe weirdos like Lovegood who spout nonsense saying that owning all three of the gifts would make you master of Death. Complete cock-and-bull story, that is. As if objects like that could ever be real.”

'Although', a quiet voice in the back of Draco's mind whispered, 'there is a weirdly perfect Invisibility Cloak hanging in your wardrobe...'

“Oh, but they are,” Weasley said matter-of-factly. “We would have lost the war if they weren't. Now, I'm not sure exactly how they were related – must have had something to do with Princess – but they are definitely real. And Luna is not weirder than _some people_. At least _she_ is not travelling the world looking for someone who doesn't exist, like you with your imaginary _boyfriend_.”

“Hilarious,” Draco snorted and rolled his eyes, a slight blush creeping up his neck. As if they could bait him with childish pranks like that. Princess Potter however had a fun ring to it and he would _absolutely_ tell Potter about that once he was back – and absolutely _not_ about the boyfriend bit. Weasley was so not funny.

“It's not a joke, Draco. _Resurrection Stone ghosts_ are also echoes of sorts, but like memories or more precisely, the ghost form of the way the owner of the Stone wishes the memories to be. To put it differently: They appear as the wisher wants them to appear, albeit invisible to others. I wonder if they could even be called afterimages at all, since they are copies of ideal images rather than real people and–“ 

“Let's say they exist, which I highly doubt, and this is a legit ghost type. I still don't see the connection to the baby,” Draco cut in. 

'And Potter', he silently added. He was getting impatient with the litany (even thought it was really interesting). And he was going to have Potter spill all the details about this craziness with the Resurrection Stone; later.

“Right, I was getting there.”

“Get there faster,” the Weasel commented and earned himself a light smack on the shoulder.

“So, all things I mentioned so far are related to ghost types of the mind or in other words, they are somewhat connected to character and personality. There is however also another sort of ghost-like apparitions that are linked to the soul.”

“The soul...” Draco shifted uneasy. “Aren't you putting your head above the parapet a bit with this one? I mean, do you even know if there is something like a soul?”

The girl cocked her head and contemplated that for a moment. “I believe there is or more like, I know there is. See, when Voldemort” (Draco shuddered.) “tried to make himself immortal, he divided his soul to create so-called Horcruxes. That is indeed what we and Pickle did when we were on the run – search and destroy said soul pieces to make V– _him_ mortal again. In some of them though, we found something akin to a spectre that interacted with us. _Horcrux ghosts_ are almost corporeal memories of the soul's owner which act according to the owner's wishes, but mostly independently.”

“Okay, all that is fascinating (and terrifying), but the _baby–_ ” Draco tried. He _really_ didn't want to dwell on the idea of an immortal Dark Lord, good gracious. Draco would buy Potter a thank you gift after all this. A big one. 

“So, _souls_ exist and bodies without them that still move through magic can be sometimes mistaken for ghosts, but they really aren't. They are _Inferi_ , only body but no soul.”

Draco took a deep breath to finally end this lecture, but didn't get a word in, since Granger ploughed on: “Now, the _baby_ is the exact opposite: The girl is a _soul ghost_ , for a lack of a better label. She left her alive body and now travels with The Hunt as mere soul. So, there you have it. Plymouth is a mind ghost type, a Hunt ghost and the infant is a soul ghost type, a soul ghost. Of course the Hunt's magic concerning them would be completely different.”

Granger gave the boys a smug look and leaned back on her hands. “Any more questions?”

“No,” Weasley groaned and let himself fall back onto the sand. “Please, no more.”

“But why did her soul go with The Hunt?” Draco's head hurt from all the input, but he still lacked some of the puzzle pieces. 

Weasley made a whiny noise of indignation.

“I don't know.” Granger's bushy hair drifted in the wind and she watched the waves come ashore. “Maybe she was whisked over when her mother died and then just went with them. We can't say for sure. I mean, why did they take Paisley? Must be a reason.” She looked at him. “We'll find out, I'm sure of it. And...maybe we need to look into the animal spirits, too?”

The Weasel choked out a sob and sat up so quickly, sand was flying everywhere. “Enough! Hermione seriously, I wanted a day off, remember?”

She waved her hand at him dismissively. “Okay, okay, but I guess it won't hurt to look into it, wouldn't you agree, Malfoy? We can start with what we already know about Thestrals and Grims and work from there. Yeah? Oh, what now?”

Draco and Weasley were wearing twin expressions on their faces: incomprehension. 

Granger sighed heavily. “Boys, really, we had that in class! Or I mean, parts of it. But it makes sense: Thestrals are ghost horses which left The Hunt for one reason or another. That's why they are connected to death and misfortune in people's minds. Same goes for Grims; they are ghost dogs that defected from The Hunt. What do you gather?”

“I thought you don't believe in Grims!” squawked Weasley and waved about with his hands. “What about all that Trelawney-bashing in third year?”

“Ah, well, I changed my mind. Turns out she was right in the end, wasn't she? After all, your best friend Pillar was abducted by The Wild Hunt which Grims are connected to and she saw one in your cup, so I can admit that I misjudged her. I will send her a card when we get back.” She whipped her head around and stared at her boyfriend defiantly as if daring him to continue the argument. He however was cleverer than Draco would have given him credit and shut his mouth. 

There was a long pause in which only the cries of the seafowl and the wind were heard. 

Then Draco spoke: “Thanks for the lecture, Granger. I'll see to looking into that a bit more and also the animal spirits. Now, almost time to get back, isn't it?”

*** 

Draco had spent the rest of the day with the Golden Couple and was exhausted when he finally arrived home and fell into bed. What a day. So many thoughts filled his head. He wanted nothing but to sleep.

But first things first. He could not forget his nightly ritual he had taken to doing every time before falling asleep. He wiggled until he lay comfortably and then started the mantra: Harry Potter, green eyes, stupid glasses, black bird's nest, fondness of treacle tart...

*** 

It was an April afternoon and the weather had decided to be stormy, rainy and wholly unpleasant. Draco cumbersomely folded his umbrella and knocked. He was right on time.

“Ah, Draco, love, come in quickly! It's frightful outside today.” Andromeda Tonks enveloped her only nephew in a tight hug and brushed the fringe from his forehead. “You're too thin. Are you eating properly?”

“Don't fuss, Aunt Andromeda. I'm fine.” 

Draco bashfully extricated himself from her arms. It still felt so weird for him to even be allowed in her presence, let alone being welcomed with such warmth. 

No stranger watching them from outside would ever believe that the two of them only met for the first time about three months back. 

The week after the disastrous encounter with Potter and The Hunt, after Granger had kicked Draco out of his self-pity, he had gone back to Hogwarts for the first time since Potter's abduction. Draco had worked on patches all day and finally had made a last detour to visit the memorial site before going home. 

It hadn't been a conscious effort to stop as his unknown cousin Nymphadora's cross but as he stood there and contemplated his life choices, his aunt had approached him. 

It had been an awkward and tense conversation that had ended in an agreement to meet for tea.

One tea time had turned into several had turned into a semi-regular thing and was by now an almost weekly occurrence.

His aunt was so different from other pure-bloods that Draco often found himself wondering how she had become like this in the household she had grown up in. But he hadn't dared ask her yet. 

Nonetheless, it was under his gentle tutelage that his mother had quietly picked up where she had left off with her sister all those years ago and by now, the two of them were tentatively exchanging letters which seemed to bring both of them joy, as far as Draco could conclude.

“Teddy was just about to go for a nap, but I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you before. Why don't you pop in on him while I'll fetch us some tea and biscuits?”

“Yes, thank you.” 

Draco hung his cloak on a clothes hook and headed for the nursery. 

When he leaned over the cradle, the little boy inside started to make happy baby noises and reached with his tiny arms for Draco.

Having a child in his life was new and he still was insecure about handling Teddy, but Draco had taken a great liking to the little one. However, watching the gurgling infant now, Draco felt a sting. The Swedish baby girl had been so still. Yes, he was determined to get her back as well. Potter _and_ the baby – or no deal.

His fingers were snatched by Teddy and Draco lowered himself next to the cradle, reaching for a storybook. It was the one that Aunt Andromeda's late husband had bought for his grandson. That was of course before Muggle-born Uncle Ted had been murdered. 

Having Aunt Andromeda tell Draco so much about her little family made him always sad and angry about the missed opportunity to get to know them. Now he never would. 

But at least he could honour their legacy. 

Draco opened the index and was just about to pick a fairy tale at random, when his eyes fell upon a title that sounded eerily familiar: 'Mother Holle'. 

He frowned. Holle was surely one of the aliases of the crone from The Wild Hunt. Why was that name in a Muggle storybook?

He opened the page. Might as well read this story to Teddy.

“Once upon a time there were two step-sisters both named Mary. One kind and zealous, the other mean and lazy. One after the other, they met Mother Holle, a friendly elderly woman, in her magical realm. She asked them for help with some tasks, like fluffing up the bedding until feathers came out thus making it snow in the real world. In the end the good girl who had done all tasks, got rewarded by being bathed in gold and was henceforth called Gold Mary. But the bad girl who had slept all day, got punished by being doused in pitch and was henceforth called Pitch Mary. The end.”

Huh. The narrative held some similarities to the Hunt lore. A mysterious, powerful old woman named Holle who could make it snow. Also, reward and punishment. Draco made a mental note to look further into this particular story but also other Muggle fairy tales. 

Muggle... Draco thoughtfully turned the page over. He wondered if Potter had ever heard that story. If maybe, secretly, as a child Harry had always hoped to go to Mother Holle's realm and be rewarded, while his stupid cousin would be punished. Draco smiled at the thought: Gold Harry and Pitch Harry. 

Thunder rolled in the distance and the storm wind banged a branch against the window. 

Draco shivered and continued to leaf through the book. "Oh look, Teddy! This cat here looks like Howard." He offered the picture for the baby to examine, but the little one had fallen asleep while Draco had been reading.

"I was wondering: Why _did_ you call your cat Howard?" Andromeda had come in, bearing a tray with two cups of steaming tea and an overloaded plate with self-made biscuits. 

Draco paused, blinked. "I...don't recall." He furrowed his brows. “Must have been a spur of the moment thing.” 

He sipped his tea. It didn't seem important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
>  _“Draco’s Theme”_ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6YDQEQHXaA  
> Dino Meneghin - If you need it so badly
> 
> I think it's when Draco's self-reflecting. Thoughtful and melancholic.  
> Picking up happy tunes when he thinks he's found something...  
> ...and regressing back to sad when it doesn't work.
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  _“Tack så mycket.”_ = "Thank you so much." (Swedish)  
>  _“Hej, jag heter Draco Malfoy. Ah, talar du Engelska?”_ = "Hi, my name is Draco Malfoy. Ah, do you speak English?" (Swedish)  
>  _"Javisst."_ = "Sure." (Swedish)
> 
>  **Trivia:**  
>  Here's a nice version of the fairytale Mother Holle by the Brothers Grimm  
> http://whisperingbooks.com/Show_Page/?book=Fairy_Tales_From_The_Brothers_Grimm&story=Mother_Hulda


	11. Intermezzo IV: All caroling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo~  
> I hope you are all alright in these crazy times.  
> May this chapter pick you up should you feel burdened.
> 
> As my lovely beta had a busy week, I had to try my best without them. So if you find spelling errors, way too long sentences or logic mistakes, then, yes, that's all on me ^^°
> 
> Therefore today, a shoutout to all beta readers out there who spend their valuable time, patience and insight to help the writers: Thank you for your hard work. You rock!
> 
> It's the first time I post anything without a second opinion, so I'm a bit anxious.  
> If you have a moment, leave a comment? Would be much appreciated <3

Harry nervously looked himself over in the mirror for one last time. He had tried (and failed) to tame his hair and wore new dress robes. 

Fancy parties had never really been his thing and after the war, large crowds always held the potential for over-zealous, well-meaning fans to approach him. 

Fame was something Harry could do without perfectly and that was ironic since he basically had been _born_ famous.

He snorted at the thought. Malfoy would have a field day with that interpretation. 

Harry fiddled with his bangs.

Would Malfoy even come tonight? He didn't go for masses these days either. 

On the other hand, it was the Hogwarts re-opening celebration and Malfoy had put in quite the work over the last few weeks, so maybe...

Harry shook his head, what did it even matter if Mr. Silver Spoon attended? Harry would barely have time to talk to him and next to Malfoy with his refined posture and his elegant features Harry would look even more like a country rube.

There were voices in the hallway and Harry made his way down to meet his friends.

“Hello, Handsome.” Ginny kissed him on the cheek. Her floor-length burgundy satin dress caressed her curves in all the right places. 

She was a woman now and Harry often wondered if maybe soon she would expect him to do something about that. Yet while they had resumed their relationship after the Battle of Hogwarts, between grieving and dealing and picking up broken pieces, there hadn't been much space for romance in Harry's mind. So the few times they had seen each other alone since had been uneventfully filled with cuddling above all else. 

His gaze went to the other female in the group. “Blimey, Harry, you look smart!” Hermione in her little black dress beamed at him and went in for a hug. 

She and Ron had only come back from Australia a week ago and boy, had Harry missed them both. Letters could just not substitute for a live meeting. He was beyond glad they were back.

Harry then turned to greet his best friend – and burst into laughter. _“What are you wearing?”_

Ron sheepishly played with the hems of his maroon velvet dress robe. “I just thought, for old times' sake, you know?” He grinned at Harry lopsidedly.

Harry tried really hard to regain his composure, but by now, tears were running down his cheeks and he had trouble breathing, clutching his stomach. 

Ron frowned. “It's not _that_ funny.” 

“Yes,” Harry panted, “it really, really is.”

After a moment, the others joined in the guffaw and when they finally had calmed down, their faces were red and happy.

“Shall we go?” Harry said, offering his arm for Ginny to grab.

“Wait!” Kreacher had suddenly appeared, ears flapping with excitement. He held out what looked like an old Muggle camera. “A picture for Master Harry to remember!”

Harry rolled his eyes fondly. Kreacher really resembled a doting parent at times (“Master Harry should eat! Master Harry should take a shower! Master Harry should go for a walk!”).

“Good evening, Kreacher,” Hermione smiled and the house-elf tentatively smiled back.

“The picture?” he repeated hopefully. 

“Yes, alright, why not. Come here.” Ron herded them all together.

Kreacher's eyes sparkled. “Say 'toujours pur'!” There was an awkward pause. “Ah, that is... say 'cheese'!”

*** 

The castle was full to the brim with people when the four of them stepped into the Entrance Hall. Everyone had come to celebrate the grand re-opening of Hogwarts. 

Harry felt a prick of pride as he took in the mended walls, the clean hallways and fixed windows. The Patchers had really done a splendid job here. Even though there were still minor repairs afoot, the school as whole had reattained its functionality so that starting tomorrow, first of September, students could once again walk the venerable halls of Hogwarts.

Harry noted a sense of nostalgia, even though he had been here a lot of times after the war. But tonight was different. It felt like the start of a new era. 

“Mister Potter! Look over here! Mister Weasley! Miss Granger, smile for the camera!” 

Flash. Flash. Flash.

In the one second Harry had been reminiscing, photographers had surrounded their little group. Harry felt uncomfortably trapped. The press was still not his cup of tea, even though it was now way more moderate and printing way less lies about him.

“Oh, look: pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows!” Pinkish glitter powder rained over the crowd of paparazzi and left them all dazed with far-off, elated expressions on their faces. “Quickly, this way!” George had appeared at their sides, pulling them away now. 

“What did you do to them?” Hermione suspiciously eyed the out-of-order press people over her shoulder.

“Just a little test run for a new product: Unicorn Powder.” George grinned and winked at her. “Makes you see only happy, fluffy things for a minute or two.” It was nice to see him smile again. He had been moody lately, for understandable reasons.

“It's not made from real unicorns though, right?” Hermione asked sharply but George just laughed and led them into the Great Hall where the rest of the Weasley family had assembled at one of the long tables laden with food Hogwarts-style. 

“There you are. Oh, Harry, you look dapper, dear!” Mrs. Weasley got up to hug Harry bone-crushingly tight. 

There were greetings all around as Harry looked at each in turn: Mr. Weasley (smiling warmly), Percy (looking stiff and all-important), Charlie (with a dragon-tooth-necklace), Bill (still scarred) and Fleur (still beautiful). And while they seemed like always, there was a thin layer of sadness enveloping the whole family – Fred's missing presence an unmentioned hole in their midst. 

Throughout this celebration of life and laughter, the proverbial ghosts of the dead were sitting among them all. 

But Harry was determined not to feel sad today. He wanted to feel proud, proud of what _they_ had accomplished, proud of what Lupin and Tonks and the others had fought for. That basically the whole of Britain's wizarding community could be here tonight, free from suppression and fear, this was _their_ achievement and Harry was immensely grateful to them. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome back to Hogwarts,” Headmistress McGonagall's magically reinforced voice echoed through the room. She was standing tall, as she'd always done; a tower of strength. 

People went quiet to listen, but Harry's thoughts drifted off. There had been too many speeches lately, he was tired of them.

Instead his eyes roamed freely, finding so many familiar faces, old and new: people he knew before and people he had met during patching. 

These days, the repair works were a welcome distraction for Harry whenever it just felt too much and he already knew that he would come back to finish the last bits even after school would have started again. 

Harry scanned the crowd once more, this time with purpose. He was about to settle on non-attendance when he finally caught a glimpse of blond in the furthermost corner of the Great Hall, right next to the portal. Malfoy was leaning in a niche, half-hidden by Hogwarts' banners. His arms were crossed over his immaculate dress robes and he was listening intently with a grim expression. 

Suddenly, as if he could feel the gaze, Malfoy's eyes snapped to Harry's and they shared a long moment simply looking at each other. Then Malfoy slowly dipped his head in greeting and so did Harry. He felt inexplicably lighter knowing Malfoy had come after all. 

With the end of the speech, dinner was declared open and the Great Hall exploded in voices, laughter and busyness, with people eating, drinking and going back and forth to talk with friends and exchange words with acquaintances. 

Many of Harry's former classmates, friends and comrades-in-arms – coming in pairs or groups, with their families or alone – popped up to greet them. 

Luna was there in the most bizarre and most Luna-esque dress that Harry had ever seen. Neville had come with his grandmother. Dean had come and Seamus and Parvati and Padma and all of them. There were Oliver Wood and Colin's little brother Dennis Creevey, Katie Bell, Justin Finch-Fletchley and the lot. Harry saw George flirting with Angelina Johnson. He saw Professor Slackhorn laughing jovially with Cho, Professor Grubbly-Plank clinking glasses with Hagrid. Dedalus Diggle dropped his hat at the excitement of meeting Harry again. Kingsley shook Harry's hand. Andromeda told a story about little Teddy's sleeping five hours straight the other night. 

The Great Hall was buzzing like a bee hive and Harry was just starting to feel a bit more relaxed when they announced a big reveal and asked everyone to assemble in the Entrance Hall. 

As the people had squeezed into every available corner, filling staircases and the entrances of hallways, the portal to the Great Hall was closed and now showed a veiled something hanging on either wing of the door. 

Headmistress McGonagall, looking solemn and a bit regal, stepped in front of the portal and addressed the crowd: “It is with great appreciation and great sadness that we remember our dead today. Those brave hearts that defended Hogwarts and our freedom, to preserve it for us and future generations.” She waved her wand and the fabric disappeared, revealing two shiny copper plaques with names: Hogwarts' Fallen Fifty. “Sons and daughters of Hogwarts. You will never be forgotten.”

“You will never be forgotten.” The last sentence was echoed by many voices.

Harry whispered the words, inaudibly. He was choking on something or at least that was what it felt like. Yes, he had known tonight could be difficult but he hadn't expected to be gut-punched.

Or blind-sighted. 

“Er, we, that is, the thankful wizarding community would also like to, er, unveil something if that is alright with you, Headmistress?” A plumb woman had stepped forward and shrank visibly under McGonagall's stern appraisal that said wordlessly that she was _not_ 'alright' with the interruption. 

The speaker ploughed on though: “We all know who to thank for winning the war.” Her eyes gleamed with tears of emotion and sought Harry's group in the crowd. Uh oh. “Without further ado, we would like to honour the Saviour and show our gratitude. Thank you, Mister Potter!” 

And with that she rushed forward to kiss a floundering Harry on both cheeks, while in the Entrance Hall on the opposite side of the portal, a hilariously hideous portrait of a goofy-faced Harry was unveiled and people started 'ooh'ing and clapping. 

From that moment on, as if on cue, the masses took the opportunity to circle Harry and express their heart-felt thanks, whether he wanted to hear them or not.

It took a full bag of George's Unicorn Powder to spring Harry from the clutches of well-disposed witches and wizards and get him down a hallway, into a quiet corner.

“That,” Harry panted, “was grotesque. I don't even look like that. What were they thinking?”

“Well, silver lining: Now the portrait can accept all their thanks in your stead.” Hermione grinned and Harry shot her a dirty look. 

“It's not funny! What if people think that _thing_ is allowed to speak for me and take its words at face value? God, the horror. I'll have to talk to Headmistress McGonagall about this later. And I'd like to see your reaction once they hang up _your face_ so disastrously disfigured.”

“Oof, don't use the big words now, Harry, you'll make Ron dizzy,” Ginny teased and shoved at her brother.

Ron ignored her though, looking thoughtfully back towards the Entrance Hall. “Wasn't that bad, really, was it? I mean, they tried.” He shrugged.

“Well-meant is the opposite of well-done,” Harry grumbled darkly and fumbled with his rumpled dress robes. 

Music was starting to drift through the hallway from the direction of the feast.

“Seems like they opened the dance floor. I'll see if Angelina wants to boogie!” George was quickly retreating towards the crowd. Over his shoulder he shouted back to them: “Are you coming?”

“Well, I could do with a bit of dancing... Milady?” Ron bowed exaggeratedly and held a hand out to Hermione who giggled and took it. They followed George, leaving Harry alone with Ginny.

There was a moment of stillness between them, neither moving nor talking. Then the ginger brushed a lock behind her ear and cleared her throat: “How about it? Would you like to...” she trailed off, probably because she had seen Harry's expression. 

There was nothing he wanted less at the moment than to go back in there and make a fool of himself on the dance floor while everyone was watching him. 

“I'm sorry, Ginny, I just...”

“It's okay,” she said quickly, but he could see that she was disappointed. 

Harry felt guilty. He couldn't deal with this right now. “I need some fresh air.”

“Right. Let's then.”

“No,” he shook his head. “You go dance with the others.”

Her brows furrowed. “Are you sure, because we can totally–”

He gently squeezed her shoulder. “I'm sure. I just want to be alone for a moment.”

After giving him a long, searching look, she nodded. “Alright. I'll see you later?”

“Yeah.” 

Harry waited a minute before he followed the others. But instead of entering the Great Hall to which the portal was once again open, he walked out of the main gate onto the castle grounds.  
But not before peeping into the party room once and seeing Ron and Hermione do an enthusiastic performance of an Aboriginal dance that had everyone laughing and imitating them; Ginny in their midst.

Harry smiled. Australia had been good for healing his friends' wounds, at least a bit. 

And while he did feel somewhat bad for leaving his date alone, he just needed a breather now. 

That's why he ventured further and further away from the castle, since everywhere couples and small groups of people had gathered on the grass, enjoying the balmy summer night.

Harry looked back at the school, its silhouette glittering on the lake's surface. The lights from the high windows danced on the water like specks of gold. 

He turned around. He knew now where he wanted to go. 

*** 

As Harry entered the Quidditch pitch, a wave of warm familiarity enclosed him. He would always feel at home here.

“I'm really spared nothing, am I?” The bodiless voice emitted from the shadows, out of the stands made Harry jump in alarm.

“Can't take your eyes off me, eh, Scarhead?” Malfoy's wand lit up revealing his pale face seemingly floating mid-air. “Well, I _am_ rather dazzling, so I guess that's understandable. But you really should have your stalker tendencies looked at someday.”

“Malfoy,” Harry huffed and realised that he was already relaxing. The world was weird these days when meeting Draco Malfoy alone in a dark place made Harry feel safe while being in a well-lit room surrounded by his friends flared his anxiety. 

He pushed the thought away and started climbing the terrace. “What are you doing out here?”

There was a pause before the other boy answered. “I'm hiding. Parties... parties are not really great for me at the moment. But I wanted to come to honour Hogwarts and the Patchers.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” Harry dropped down next to Malfoy who in turn whispered _“Nox”_ , plunging them back into the summer night's half-light. 

Harry squinted down at the entrance he had just come through. “How did you know it was me? I can't see a thing from up here.”

Malfoy snorted. “Now, that's because you are blind as a bat. But – who else would run off to the Quidditch pitch in the middle of the celebrations, other than you? After that _great reveal_.” The blond boy chuckled. “Your expression was worth galleons.”

“ ...you saw that, huh?” Embarrassment twisted Harry's stomach into knots. 

“ _Everyone_ saw that,” Malfoy laughed silently, his shoulders brushing Harry's as he shook. “Wait till it's in the _Daily Prophet_ tomorrow.”

Harry groaned: “Don't remind me. Ugh, I hate being in the papers.”

Only lit by the stars and the dim glow from the distant castle, he could barely see Malfoy's profile when the latter spoke: “I never believed you before, you know? About hating being in the limelight. I always thought you were so annoying for acting humble while you secretly enjoyed it. Or maybe it was just that I wished I were the one to be the centre of attention.” He cocked his head slightly. “But you really mean it, don't you? You hate those things.”

“God, yes.” Harry let out a long breath. “You can have all the adulation of the press for all I care.”

“No, thanks. I was in the papers enough for a lifetime. With the trial and all...” Malfoy shifted uncomfortably and pulled his knees up, resting his arms on top of them. 

He looked so vulnerable that Harry had the sudden impulse to wrap his arm around Malfoy's shoulder or take his hand again, like that one morning by the lake. Harry'd never allowed himself to think about it too much, but retrospectively, that had been odd. Holding hands with his old school bully as if it was nothing, as if it was perfectly normal.

Right, Harry shook his head. Why shouldn't it be normal? Touch for comfort, that was the most human thing in the world. And Malfoy and he were good now, so why was Harry getting nervous thinking about reaching out?

To hell with it. 

He leaned his shoulder ever so slightly into the other boy who stiffened for a second but then relaxed, letting it happen. 

“The press sucks. Best just to ignore them,” Harry said in a low voice.

Malfoy hummed approval, but stayed still otherwise.

A breeze ruffled their hair. Music from the castle was quietly drifting through the air – someone must have opened the high windows in the Great Hall. 

Harry felt peaceful in a way he hadn't for a long time. He let his head drop on Malfoy's shoulder. 

There was something Harry needed to say though. “Your aunt Andromeda is here tonight.”

Malfoy gave no response.

“I think she would really love to talk to you. She is... she has lost so much in the war: husband, daughter, son-in-law... You are the only immediate family she has left in Britain – aside from Teddy, but he's just a baby.” Harry turned his head a bit to look at Malfoy's cheek. “Had you even heard your cousin had a child?”

“I heard,” was all the reply Harry got and somehow this made him angry. He had thought that Malfoy was changing, trying to be more tolerant, but now his reluctance to meet Andromeda irked Harry tremendously. 

He sat upright, anger flaring up. “She is nice, okay? Like, really nice! And you, what? Can't even bother to say hello, just because you–”

“I'm not ready!” Malfoy's tense voice was way too loud in the stadium. He had whipped around. “I can't, alright? Not yet. I...” His features softened. “Can you tell her though? To wait? Just a bit longer.” 

Something very complicated happened on the blond boy's face and Harry wondered just how hard it must be for the other to put aside the ideological indoctrination of his upbringing. 

The important thing though was that he was trying. 

Harry's chagrin deflated as he sighed and nodded. “Yeah, I'll tell her.” Then he grinned. “But then you have to come visit her soon, otherwise she'll hunt you down. That woman has determination and once she set her sights on you, you better not run.” Malfoy lifted an eyebrow at him. “She pretty much forced me to renovate my house after she came by once. For my own good, of course.”

“Of course,” the other wizard answered dryly, his lips curling into a half-smile. “Well, now that you apparently have a newly redecorated house I'm sure you'll find a place to hang a portrait or two.” He blinked innocently. “Maybe ask that nice lady back in there for the contact information of the painter?”

“You're terrible,” Harry laughed. “That thing is icky.”

“Bad enough to drive you out here anyway.”

“Ha! I wish. No, that was because, er, I mean...” Harry suddenly felt a blush creeping up his face. Why would he confess something so embarrassing to Malfoy? Well, in for a penny. “I didn't really feel like dancing,” he finished lamely.

Malfoy barked a laugh, then flashed him a wolfish grin. "Oh, _that's_ the way to get rid of you? Had I only known that before. The trouble I could have saved me! Well, in that case: May I have this dance?" With a flourishing movement he got to his feet and offered a hand to Harry. 

It was a joke of course. Not even worth an answer, really. Yet Malfoy held out his hand for a moment too long and Harry thought 'Whatever' and took it. 

There was only a split-second of hesitation, then Harry was pulled up, mischief glinting in Malfoy's eyes. 

And then they were dancing in the starlight, tumbling over the benches, giggling and forgetting all sorrow. For a moment they were young and free and endless. Oh, the pure glory to be alive!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y83x7MgzWOA  
> Ed Sheeran & Justin Bieber - I don’t care
> 
> Harry and Draco are uncomfortable at the party, but comfortable with each other.


	12. Chapter 7: Song of good cheer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people~
> 
> Guess what? It's another Draco chapter. Why? Well, for reasons.
> 
> Anyway, I think this one might be my new favourite.
> 
> And not just because I had a great time reading my radiant beta umbrellaless22's edits.  
> (Aren't proofreaders just a-ma-zing?)
> 
> Oh, by the way, it's my birthday today, so if you feel like it, gift me a comment?

“Adam. Brian. Chester. David. Eli,” the Weasel read from a paper.

“No, none of these.” Draco sighed unhappily and rubbed his temples. 

They had been playing this game for a month now and yet the right name hadn't popped up so far. Or maybe it had and Draco had just not recognized it. Worst case scenario. 

Ever since one random day in April, he couldn't recall Potter's given name anymore. At first he hadn't even noticed, as seldom as Draco used it, but when it hit him, he had tried everything to get the name back, to no avail so far.

More alarming yet were the other things, Draco was sure, he had forgotten somehow. There were loose threats in his thoughts and connections he couldn't make anymore. Bits and pieces of Potter disappeared every day from Draco's memory. The name was just the tip of the iceberg. 

Draco would not lose them all though. He had promised himself that he wouldn't. His rituals would carry him through till Yuletide when he would finally get Potter and all the missing memories back. 

Until then he would try to find the name again. The one thing he _knew_ he had lost. 

“Okay, that's all for now.” Weasley's voice had an edge to it that made Draco look up. The redhead had been fidgety all afternoon and kept glancing at the door. 

“Alright, out with it. What is up with you today?” Draco set his teacup down on the kitchen table of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

“Mhm? Oh, nothing, just, Hermione's awfully late, don't you think?” 

It was Wednesday and Draco's turn to provide dinner, so they had met for research recap in his library. Or so they had planned. Instead, Weasley had shown up by himself, with the vague excuse of Granger still having to run an errand. The two boys, left alone for the first time, had then awkwardly tried to work but had soon agreed it was time for a tea break... which had turned into a tea hour with wizard chess. 

Granger really _was_ late.

As if on cue, the front door was heard and a cheerful voice floated through the house. “Ron! Draco!”

“Down here!” Weasley shouted, jumping up so energetically that his chair fell backwards. “In the kitchen!”

Granger's bushy head appeared in the door frame. She was positively glowing.

Draco furrowed his brows at the excited beams the two others were exchanging.

“Did you get them?” the Weasel asked giddily, coming around the table to greet his girlfriend. 

She smiled, brilliant as a summer day. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he echoed, with a dreamy look.

Something was going on and Draco was speedily getting annoyed with having no idea what.

Before he could complain though (shame really, he _loved_ complaining) his two guests simultaneously turned towards him. Er....

“Draco,” Granger said with a solemn voice, “you're the first to get one. I just fetched them fresh from the printers.” She handed him an ivory envelope with painted leafy twirls on it. 

Draco eyed it carefully for a moment, before opening it and unfolding the contained paper. It read:

 _You are cordially invited to the wedding of  
Ms. Hermione Jean Granger and Mr. Ronald Bilius Weasley  
on the 15th of June at The Burrow.  
RSVP._

Draco blinked. Then blinked again. Then stared at them. “You are _nineteen_!”

“Gee, thank you for the nice reaction, Ferret” said the Weasel and sat down next to Draco, leaning into his personal space to have a peek at the card. “But they did turn out beautifully, didn't they?”

“...sure.” Draco looked helplessly at Granger, half awaiting to hear a 'Gotcha' from either of them, but the girl simply kept on radiating happiness. 

“We know this might come across a bit ludicrous, but yesterday was May the second,” Granger elaborated. Draco's brows furrowed. Of course he knew what the date implied – anniversary of The Battle of Hogwarts. “We talked about how lucky we are to still be alive and how many times we nearly died already and we thought 'Why wait? Life is bloody short'. So, here we go. Oh, speaking of going, Ron, I think we should head to The Burrow, tell everyone. Draco, do you mind if we reschedule dinner?”

“No problem.” Draco startled. “Wait, you didn't even tell your parents yet?” His eyes went big and warmth bloomed in his chest.

“Nope. You're the first to know, mate,” Weasley slapped Draco playfully on the shoulder. Mate. Huh, that was new. “You're coming, right?”

“I mean... have you really thought that through? An Ex-Death Eater at your wedding, are you sure?” Draco didn't try to get out of it. In fact he was rather touched and excited, already planning wedding gifts in the back of his mind. But he was also realistic and he didn't want to ruin their day.

“A _friend_ at our wedding. We're sure. That's a yes then?” Granger stared him down.

Mate. Friend. Today was a day of firsts.

“Besides,” the redhead chimed in, “maybe for the wedding we can find you someone as well. You should get out there, start dating.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“I am dating!” Draco bristled.

“Yeah~?” the Weasel said, elongating the word to several syllables. 

Granger arched an eyebrow. “Leave him alone, Ron. He's still pining for Peril.”

“It's Potter!”

“My point exactly.”

Draco blushed and diverted. “Well, I'd be delighted to attend.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you for the invitation... and congratulations.”

“Wonderful. That's settled then.” The witch clapped her hands. “Can we use your Floo?”

*** 

It was only when the newly engaged duo had left Draco's kitchen that he started to wonder. Why exactly had he become involved with the Golden Couple? 

He poured himself another cup of tea while Howard jumped onto Draco's lap, demanding a petting session.

Why was it again that those two were helping with the Hunt research? Sure, they were goody-goodies, but to this extent? It was vital that they were assisting him, their reputation, input and comradeship kept him going. But why, why had they volunteered for this?

He shook his head. Another missing piece.

Before he could dive deeper into his musings though, there was dinner to be had and a cat to please. 

The rest of the evening Draco spent between research and planning wedding presents. 

He was in a good mood, humming the Bridal Chorus from Wagner's opera _Lohengrin_ while brushing his teeth and then snuggled into bed. Right, the mantra: Potter, green eyes, stupid glasses, black bird's nest, fondness of treacle tart.

*** 

Two weeks later, Draco scrapped up all his courage and ventured into enemy territory: He needed new dress robes for the wedding (now _the_ hot topic) and was therefore forced to visit Diagon Alley, a place that was still a minefield for him as an Ex-Death Eater. There had been uncomfortable encounters before.

Today though, it seemed quiet. 

Draco went in the late morning when few people were going about their businesses. 

He entered Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions and was greeted by the cheerful owner, a squat witch dressed in mauve.

While she put him up on a footstool to be fitted, she chatted endlessly about colours, fabric swatches and true love. 

Draco nodded politely, just happy she'd treat him nicely even after the last time he'd been here, throwing a fit with his mother, back in sixth year. 

Potter had been there that day, alongside Granger and Weasley. Draco frowned. Why had they been together? Must have been a coincidence...

Madam Malkin pinned the hems and babbled. 

Potter had also been present the first time Draco had gotten a fitting here, right before his first year in Hogwarts had started. Oh, he'd been so excited (and so pompous, haha) back then. 

Draco smiled. Even though he had lost some memory pieces of Potter, this first meeting was still intact and now it replayed before Draco's mind's eye. 

Potter had been so bland: a poorly dressed scrawny boy with unkempt windswept hair who could barely get out a whole sentence. He had been a no-one to Draco and yet even so, Potter's green eyes had captured Draco's interest and without knowing who the other boy was, Draco had decided to keep tabs on him. 

Of course then it hadn't been 'Potter' as they hadn't exchanged names that day. Rather had the scar caught Draco's eye and he had proceeded in calling the interesting stranger 'Scarhead' in his mind – and he kept on doing so to this day, under certain circumstances: It was one of his biggest secrets, but during the awful days when the Dark Lord lived in the Manor and Draco's thoughts were constantly in danger of invasion, he had turned to thinking about Potter as 'Scarhead' to muddy his sentiments. 

Also, in more normal times, Draco would think 'Scarhead' whenever he silently agreed with the idiotic things Potter and his friends were up to; especially when Draco outwardly decried them. 

That was why Draco actually didn't use the nickname often to call Potter to his face – in Draco's own warped interpretation, 'Scarhead' was an endearment of sorts and he didn't want anyone to notice. A secret he would take to the grave.

“All done, dear,” Madam Malkin smiled and waved her wand to disappear left-over fabric from the floor.

Right, dress robe fitting, yeah. 

Draco shook his head. Potter was everywhere these days. But boy, had he been a clueless little wimp that first day they met. Draco grinned. Good old times. 

*** 

_“Draco Malfoy!”_

Draco flinched back violently. Not good. Why did he have to run into _her_ in the Leaky Cauldron of all places?

Pansy Parkinson, wearing a pink neckerchief and a stormy expression on her pug face, came at Draco at top speed and slapped him hard. Her eyes emitted sparks as she drew up to her full height: “You deserved that.”

As much as he wished it weren't true, she was right: Draco had been ignoring Pansy's letters far too long. He'd even put up a complicated hex to destroy any Howlers coming his way before they started howling. Not a nice thing to do; after all, there was still unsolved business between them.

“Do you have any idea what I had to do to get a hold of you? I had to _pay_ Tom,” she pointed at the barman, “to inform me the next time you came in – and it took five bloody months. _Five months_ , Draco!”

Right, the Fidelius Charm on his new residence made it impossible to visit him casually.

“I'm sorry. I've been busy,” Draco said quietly, rubbing his cheek.

The girl sniffed. “Well, you can be sorry later. But now you have to come with me. It's Greg.” With that she grabbed his arm and Disapparated them both with a _plop_.

*** 

When they landed at Goyle Grounds, Draco felt a pinch. How many times had he been over to play? Yet, he hadn't set foot here for an eternity now. It was surreal.

Pansy was already marching up the path to the front door, so he had to jog to catch up with her. “What's with Gregory?”

She shot him a dark look. “You would know had you bothered to read _any_ of our letters. The others are pissed at you, too. Just so you're aware. But that's not the important thing right now. Let's hurry.” 

The door opened before they reached it and revealed to Draco's surprise one square-built, angry-faced Millicent Bulstrode, wand at the ready. 

“You are such an ass, Draco!” she greeted him and made a threatening step in his direction. “I should just hex you or punch you in the face!”

“Already did that. Well, sort of,” Pansy informed her friend and the other witch backed down. Pansy had always been an authority figure.

“The others are already here,” Millicent told them, when Pansy pushed past her and made for the stairs, up to Gregory's room.

“The others?” Draco asked bewildered, which earned him furious twin stares by the girls. He ducked. What the bloody hell was happening?

As they walked, nearly run, down the hallway, Draco couldn't help but notice that the Grounds had lost lots of their former glamour. Many antique pieces Draco was used to seeing on the walls or on commodes were gone. Probably for reparation payments. After all, Mr. Goyle had been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban. 

Up ahead Draco could now see weedy Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass, arms crossed over her chest. They both looked anxiously at the shut door of Gregory's room.

The closer the arrivers drew, the louder turned the yelling and crashing sounds that made Draco remember very unpleasant scenes from the Manor during its Death Eater headquarters' period. 

“Took your time, did you?” Greengrass gave Draco the stink eye. Okay, this was getting simply weird, considering the witch and he had never interacted much in school. She'd been a bit of a loner.

Same as Nott who now jerked his head towards the noise. “Blaise went in.” He bit his lip. “It's really bad today.”

As if rehearsed, all heads turned towards Draco at Nott's words. Shit, what now?

“Er, what's going on?” Draco asked helplessly, feeling out of his element. He'd always been the leader, had always known all the details; now, he was on the outside and he felt himself flailing in deep waters trying to reach shore. 

“What's going on is,” Zabini, tall, dark and fierce ducked out of the room, as a splintering something hit the wall next to the door from inside, “that Goyle is beyond miserable and drinking himself into an early grave while his supposedly _best friend_ ,” here he pinned Draco down with his slanting eyes, “can't be arsed to care. Now, get the fuck in there and make him sign the self-referral form or I swear to God I'll hex you into next week.” With that he thrust a stained and crinkled paper at Draco that was headed _'St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries – Detoxification Ward'_.

Draco felt his stomach lurch. He had known Gregory was in a bad place, but so were they all after the war and frankly, with most of his friends still holding on to their pure-blood prejudices, Draco had needed to take a break from them; to re-evaluate who he himself wanted to be from now on. 

Then of course all that Potter-business had happened and Draco had been too occupied to reach out. Yes, he'd felt bad about it, and yes, he'd missed his sassy friends, but he had also realised that, if he wanted to be free from bias, _he_ had to change – and that included avoiding listening to plain old bigoted comments. He would not leave those ideas unexamined back into his life. 

He had wanted to re-connect at some point, but only after he would have found sure footing in his new beliefs. 

Apparently he had waited too long.

“Is it,” he swallowed, “is it that bad?”

“Worse,” nodded Nott solemnly. “Malfoy, you have to talk some sense into him. You're the only one he will listen to at this point.” 

“What about his mother?” Draco asked as Millicent wordlessly pushed a quill and a small ink bottle at him.

Zabini's face with the high cheekbones went even more ominous. “She had a nervous breakdown last week. Couldn't deal any more. Mother took her on a spa trip to quote unquote _'Find her a new man'_.”

Draco raised a brow at that. He could hardly imagine dull Mrs. Goyle to attract any suitors, but then again Mrs. Zabini was a femme fatale par excellence, so maybe... 

“Okay, but – why are _you_ all here?”

Greengrass flipped her hair impatiently. “Isn't that obvious? We tried for months, _months_ , to get Goyle sober and you here to help. Thus, when Parkinson messaged that she would go and pick you up at the Leaky Cauldron, we all came to support _you_ supporting _him_. We're Real Friends after all. So, you better not muck this up, Malfoy.”

Draco eyed her with a mix of pride and remorse. Greengrass had never really been part of their inner circle and yet she was here. Because that was their Slytherin motto, wasn't it? 'Real Friends', like the Sorting Hat had sung back in their first year.

Nott cleared his throat. “I tried to make him stop drinking, but he won't listen to me. Please, he... the Goyles took me in after my father went to prison.” Draco flinched. Of course he had known of widower Mr. Nott's incarceration, but Draco had assumed his classmate would simply live alone like Draco afterwards. Now he felt guilty for not checking in on the other boy. Draco had not been a great friend lately. “I just couldn't be on my own and he felt so lonely... after Crabbe. Anyway, we're tight now, okay? You need to fix this.”

“I will. And I will fix us, too. If you let me.” Draco looked at his friends one by one: the ones he was close enough to call them by first name and the ones he still referred to by last name after old pure-blood etiquette. He had missed them. So much. “I'm sorry I just disappeared on you. I... was dealing with stuff.”

Greengrass stuck her pinky into her earhole. “Did I really just hear _Draco Malfoy_ apologize or what?” 

“You have a lot to make up for, so better be generous,” black-haired Millicent said, shoving a bit too hard at his shoulder.

“But now Greg, yeah? He just has to sign, the rest is taken care of,” Nott pleaded, leaning closer to Draco which brought out their height difference. Nott had to be really worried to talk so much in one day. 

Draco swallowed hard and made a decision. “When he's gone you'll be alone again, won't you? Why don't you,” he faltered a bit but ploughed on, “come live we me for the time being?”

There was a moment of silence. 

Then Pansy flung her arms around Draco's neck. “You bastard!” she cried, voice wobbling.

Nott's face lit up in sincere gratitude as Draco gently shoved Pansy off. “Thanks... Draco, but I'm going to live with Blaise. It's all sorted out already.” 

Silent relief washed over Draco. He'd only offered out of politeness and shame, but he really liked his new lifestyle. Also, it would be weird-ass embarrassing to have Nott see all the Potter-stuff strewn around Draco's place. Yeah, better not. 

“Yep, we'll be enjoying the bachelor life together, with the mothers gone.” Zabini slung an arm around a blushing Nott. “Hey, maybe _you_ want to come live with _us_? You could use some refinement, Malfoy,” he added arrogantly.

“Ah, no, thanks, I'm good,” Draco hastily back-paddled. Screw Zabini and his opinions.

“Alright, alright, we get it, we love you again. Now go in there and take care of Goyle and then let's all grab a drink or something. Er, non-alcoholic of course.” Greengrass said, pointing at the door from behind which loud expletives were shouted their way. 

Draco steeled himself and nodded once. 

He pushed the handle and entered his oldest friend's bedroom. 

The place was a mess. Upset furniture and hurled belongings were everywhere, slivers of breakables all over the place.

Gregory sat in the middle of the chaos cross-legged on the floor, clutching a bottle of Firewhisky, three empty predecessors already piled up.

“Hello, Gregory,” Draco said carefully.

The other boy looked up and Draco had to inhale sharply at the sight: Red-rimmed, sunken eyes in a pasty face crowned an entirely uncharacteristic bag of bones. Gregory's broad shoulders were sticking out through his flimsy shirt and Draco could see how much weight his friend had lost. Dammit, Draco, why haven't you come earlier?

“You,” the sitting wizard slurred. “What, hic, what d'you want?”

“To help you,” Draco whispered. He felt his chest tightening. What had he done leaving Gregory alone for so long? The boy just wasn't built to take care of himself. 

“If you wanna help, get some more booze. Theo's cuttin' me off, that ijit.” He wobbled.

“And with good reason. You have to stop drinking, Greg,” Draco never used the abbreviation before, but now it felt right, more intimate. He lowered himself next to his friend. “It's killing you.”

The other boy stared at him vacantly. “What'sit matter? Vince' dead too.” His voice grew louder. “And you, you're never here. What'sit matter to you, Blood Traitor?”

Draco closed his eyes. “I know. I should have been there for you.” Unexpectedly, he was tearing up. “I was so caught up in my own head and I – I'm really trying to leave this shit behind me, you know? Not you, but this 'blood traitor' talk and all that. See, I realised that's all just something they made up to feel better about themselves. The Dark Lord and our fathers and–”

“Don' you dare talk about Dad!” Greg roared, suddenly jumping at Draco who wasn't fast enough and landed painfully on his back, his friend's long gorilla arms pinning him down. Greg pulled his wand and pointed it at Draco's face. “You lot went scot-free! You cosied up to Mudbloods and that filth! You don' get to tell me what to do no more! Not you!”

It was only because of Greg's high intoxication that the curse missed Draco. By millimetres. What the hell! 

Draco pushed him off. It was alarmingly easy. “Now, you listen here, you big oaf! Do you really think it was this simple for me? My family was acquitted because Potter spoke up for us and no other reason. Just because he has a soft spot for lost cases or something. The point is: He was right all along! Blood status doesn't matter. What's important is how you live your life and _you_ are _not_ allowed to throw yours away, you hear me? _You can't!_ Not over something so stupid.” He was fisting the other boy's shirt now. “Greg, I'm begging you. You're my oldest friend, don't you know that? I can't lose you, too. Please, just... go to St. Mungo's with me. Please.” He faltered.

Greg's small dull eyes bore into Draco's. “I don'... Who's Plebs?” Right, Greg didn't remember Potter. Bloody inconvenient. 

The drunk carded a big hand through his short, bristly hair. “You always said's right. Blood status.”

“I was wrong,” admitted Draco quietly. 

Greg looked lost. “Maybe you're wrong now?”

“I'm not though.” Draco laid the paper on the floor, opened the ink bottle and dipped the quill in. Then he gently took his friend's hand and guided it onto the form. “Just sign here, okay? You will feel better. They will help you there.” Draco hesitated. “Do it for Vincent. He would want you to live.” 

The big boy's mouth thinned into a tight line. “Yeah, I– okay then.” He swayed, trying to hit the dotted line. Yet he paused and looked at Draco, eyes wide. “You won' leave me again though, will you? You'll come visit? In that, in de-to-c-k-tion ward?” 

“Yes, Greg, I promise.” 

Gregory Goyle signed the self-referral form.

*** 

When Draco had come out of the room, trying his best to steady a dangerously staggering Greg, the former Slytherins had (with united forces) managed to get the patient to the hospital, signing him in and making sure that all of them had visitor privileges.

Then they had ventured to implement Greengrass' earlier suggestion and had ended up having a highly amusing late lunch in St. Mungo's cafeteria during which they all turned up their noses at the hospital food and exchanged news. 

Draco had told them about hunting the Wild Hunt and pried permissions from all of them to enter their private libraries (he'd sent them letters regarding this topic before, but they had been too pissed at him to answer back then). 

Of course there had been jokes about the lost guy's occupation (“He's not _a_ potter! His bloody _name_ is Potter!”) and also the heartfelt advice to have a check-up while Draco was here since “imagining someone who isn't there is a sign of insanity, Malfoy”. 

To the amusement of everyone but Draco, Millicent even asked suggestively: “So that Plague is keeping you busy at night, eh? Will we get to meet him once you've found him?” 

“It's not like that!”

Lunch had bled into teatime. They had separated in the afternoon, but not before making Draco swear he'd come to the next get-together on Friday. 

At last it was only Pansy and him, sitting across from each other, cups of cold tea between them.

“So, what's the deal with this ghastly badge?” Pansy shot a _look_ at the Cedric-badge. 

“It has got to do with The Hunt. I need it to remind me of Potter.”

Pansy hummed, absent-mindedly staring into the empty room. “I know it was you. The anonymous packages with the potion for dreamless sleep and the Unicorn Powder.” 

Indeed had he secretly sent out small rations of self-brewed potions to his friends. He hadn't wanted to hear their pure-blood talk, but he also had known they were in need of some nightmare-less nights, same as everybody these days. Also, a few minutes of fluff were useful every now and then and Weasley had generously gifted Draco with a few Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' products.

Draco eyed her wearily. “You like unicorns.”

“I do.” 

She took his hand and he let her. “There's nothing between us anymore, is there?” 

Draco just looked at her silently. This was The Talk then. He had been avoiding too many things for too long. 

“I guess there never really was in the first place.” A single tear trickled down Pansy's cheek and she quickly wiped it off. “I thought that if I only gave you time, you would come back to me. But you never really were _with me_ , were you? Your heart was with someone else.” Her eyes found his. “Draco, you must be aware that I've loved you since forever. You know that, don't you?”

He nodded once, but stayed silent otherwise.

She looked forlorn. “But you always just tolerated me, isn't that right? When you asked me to the Yule Ball back in fourth year, I was over the moon. From then on you let me get close, let me touch you and I figured _someday_ we would take the next step. But... you actually never saw me that way, did you?” 

He squeezed her hand. “No.” 

A silent whimper left her.

“I'm sorry, Pansy. I should have made it clearer earlier. I was a right prick.”

She smiled watery. “Yeah, you were. But you don't have to apologize. I believed what I wanted to believe. ...same as with the Dark Lord. You know, we eavesdropped on your conversation with Greg earlier,” (“Of course you did.”) “and... it's hard to accept and I don't know yet if I'm really willing to change my views, but I will think about what you said. About blood status and all that.”

“Thank you. For everything.”

*** 

That night Draco before reciting his mantra, he reflected on what Pansy had mentioned about his heart being with someone else. His thoughts at least were always with Potter whether back in school or now. But obviously that was only because they were rivals and all. 

Or was it? Draco rolled over. Suddenly he wasn't so sure anymore.

Damn Pansy for putting ideas into his head. Of course Draco's heart was not with _Potter_ of all people, absolutely not.

He growled. Time to sleep: Potter, green eyes, stupid glasses, black bird's nest.

Was that all that was left? He shook his head and yawned. He would have to do some deep thinking tomorrow to remember more. He was just too tired now, yeah, that was it. It had been a long day.

***

Granger looked breathtaking in her flowing dress and even Weasley had a grain of dashing that day, Draco had to admit. Probably the inner glow of people in love.

The ceremony was simple but classic, in the garden of The Burrow under a wide canopy. When the couple said their vows the crowd swooned. Putting the ring on his bride's finger, the look the groom gave her made Draco feel like a voyeur with all those emotions right on display.

Miraculously, Draco's presence had not caused even the slightest commotion. Dressed his best and nerves raw, he had come early expecting to have to argue his way in. Yet Mother Weasley (clearly on the lookout) had dashed over the second he'd arrived and from then on he'd been handed from one family member to the next until finally his aunt had shown up and taken pity on him. Draco had apprehensively taken over Teddy-watch, carefully cradling the infant in his arms, so Aunt Andromeda could go and be very, _very_ excited. That had been a good move since 'baby duty' had gotten Draco a free pass at both helping with tasks and receiving open hostilities. 

Some glares still found his way, but Draco couldn't be bothered. Today was a good day, a happy one. 

Even though, watching the newly-weds slow-dance in the middle of the open-air dance floor tugged painfully at his heartstrings somehow. To have someone look at him like that... The sudden, forceful longing was almost palpable and inexplicably his thoughts turned to Potter and his laughter as Draco had spun him around on the stands at the Quidditch pitch all those months ago. Potter was such a bad dancer. Draco swallowed. He would give anything to have the Scarhead tread on his toes about now. 

“Here, let me hold Teddy for a while,” said Aunt Andromeda at his side as the dance ended. “Why don't you go and give them your present, dear.”

The present. Right. Draco blinked away the lump in his throat.

He shuffled his way through the crowd and patiently endured an account of very boring Ministry business by Stuck-up Weasley while they waited in line. Suppose Draco should consider himself lucky to be worth talking to at all. Though he began to suspect that the Golden Couple had instructed their friends and families to treat Draco politely or at least with decency. 

When it finally was his turn, he puffed out his chest and was about to start with a speech he'd prepared beforehand when the wind was taken out of his sails by a two-sided hug by the bridal couple. “So good you're here.”

As they drew back with matching brightness in their eyes, Draco was too flustered to say much. Merlin, how did he ever get into this... should he call it friendship? He cleared his throat.

“My heart-felt felicitation, Weasleys,” he began pompously but was interrupted by the bride's ringing laughter.

“It's still Granger, Draco. I kept my maiden name,” she smiled at Draco who looked scandalized. Kept her maiden name? What kind of atrocity was that now? How had he missed that. Well maybe during that one time when he handed a handkerchief to Aunt Andromeda. Obviously _she_ had needed it, not him.

“Ah, alright then, _Mrs._ Granger–“ 

This time he was cut short by the exultant husband: “Knock it off, Ferret. You're at our wedding. Time to grow up, don't you think, _Draco_?” The last word was said with a gleeful grin audible even in his voice. 

“Er.” This was not going as Draco had imagined it and now he was a bit put off his stride. Their expectant beaming was unnerving. Fine. He squared his shoulders. “Very well, but only because it's your big day, _Ronald_. I have a present for you. Actually it's mostly for _Hermione_ here.” 

He handed them a bulging envelope with the Malfoy family crest on it. 

“Lots of money?” Weasley – no, Ronald – asked eagerly and ripped the paper open. How unrefined. 

Draco smirked a bit at the dumbfounded expression on the ginger's face when a heavy ancient key fell into his palm. “Er, thanks?”

Gra– Hermione, took the present from her husband, turning it over in her hand.

“It's the master key to Malfoy Manor and its grounds. I'm giving the properties to you as a permanent loan. Don't worry about the peacocks; they flew off while we were in holding. And in case you're wondering: There are no house-elves left. Also, while the garden is a bit overgrown yet rather nice still, the house itself might need a deep scrub for residual dark magic... ”

They gaped at him.

Draco fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. “I know it’s not ideal – with everything that went down there, but I thought maybe you would want to open a library in the Manor. A public wizarding library, modelled on the Muggle ones. I thought if anyone could pull it off it would be you, Gra– Hermione.”

“That is such a thoughtful gift. I'm speechless, Draco.” She hugged him again.

The Ronald-Weasel looked sceptical. “And your parents don't mind?”

“They agreed when I told them I would never set foot in the house again anyway and that it was for the whole of the wizarding community and also a good way to do penance.”

“I think you've done enough of that already,” the redhead said quietly and while doing so he looked at Draco in an earnest way that made Draco believe he meant it.

'It will never be enough', Draco thought bitterly, but he didn't voice it out loud. Not today.

“Oh, this is great! We can put the reception desk in the entrance hall and–”

“Hermione, could you wait maybe until after our honeymoon to start planning this thing? No offence, sweetheart, but you tend to obsess,” the groom suggested tenderly and took the key from his bride.

“Yes, of course. Thank you again, Draco, a wonderful surprise!”

“Yeah, mate, cool idea.”

Other people in the line pushed forward and Draco was released, feeling happy and somehow freed from a burden. He did not regret his decision. 

He sauntered over to the buffet, his gaze wandering between the dishes until he picked a piece of treacle tart.

“Malfoy, a word.” Draco turned to find the bulk of Potter's former dorm mates facing him. Longbottom, Finnigan and Thomas had him surrounded, no way of escaping. 

Draco glanced at the happy bridal couple. “Should we take this outside? No need to cause a scene.”

The three boys exchanged silent looks. 

“Let's go then,” Finnigan agreed for all of them.

The quartet walked out of the party and around the corner of The Burrow. 

Draco braced himself. Well, it would have been too easy to get an uneventful day. His fingers wrapped themselves around his wand. He would not attack but at least try to protect himself.

“Let's get this over with,” Draco hissed between grit teeth.

There was a silent eye battle between the former Gryffindors then Longbottom began to speak words that made zero sense to Draco: “Er, yeah, so we were wondering if you would like to play Quidditch with us next Saturday. There's going to be a Patchers Only game at the pitch at Hogwarts.”

Curious. They must have hit him with a spell while walking. Weird how he hadn't felt anything. But with hallucinations like this a head injury was certain.

“Well?” Finnigan prodded. 

“Huh?” was Draco's very eloquent answer. 

“The game,” the Irishman elaborated, rolling his eyes impatiently. “You in or out?”

“I, I, _what_?” Maybe Draco had died without realising?

“It'll be just for fun. Something some Patchers came up with last week and I mean, you do a lot of work at the castle, so you should come?” Longbottom looked a bit uneasy but then his face sobered. “Your help on the heating system in the dungeons really saved us in winter. I would have frozen my arse off if you hadn't found the reversing spell for that heat-blocker hex.” He gave Draco a serious look. “We noticed, you know. You really are putting your shoulder to the wheel.”

“Also,” Finnigan took the floor, “Ron said you're alright now and if _he_ says so after everything then _we_ can try burying the hatchet as well. What do you think, Malfoy? Truce?”

Draco blinked several times rapidly. The Weasel had said Draco was 'alright', Longbottom wanted to play Quidditch together and Finnigan was offering a truce. Yep, definitely dead. 

“Cat got your tongue?” the Irishman joked before suddenly turning stormy-faced. “You're not still thinking you're better than us?!” He thumbed Draco hard in the upper arm. Ouch. 

Ouch? This was real then? Oh my.

“I,” Draco rasped and licked his lips, “I would like that, ahem, Quidditch – and the truce, yeah.” Wow, great speech, Draco. 

“Cool,” Finnigan, always the mood-swing, was already grinning again, “see you Saturday then. Now I need a drink. What about you?”

Longbottom nodded relieved and Draco thought that this wasn't the worst of ideas. However, Thomas who had not said a single word during the whole conversation, spoke up now: “You two go ahead. I still have something to say to Malfoy.”

His friends looked back and forth between Draco and Thomas and finally decided to stay out of it, awkwardly walking away.

Draco stiffened. All of Thomas' posture screamed antagonism, from his crossed arms to his deadly glare. That was more what Draco had expected.

The other boy shifted. “You held me prisoner in your cellar.”

“I did and I'm sorry. I can't apologize enough.” 

“No, you can't,” Thomas spat bitterly. “The war is over, so why do I still have to carry around this crushing burden? I don't want to be hurting anymore and I don't want to be angry or seething or hateful. I am done fighting, yet I'm still having nightmares of the Manor.” He shot Draco a gut-wrenching look. “I'm trying to get better, but you entering my friend circle is bloody not helping.”

Draco swallowed. He deserved this – and so much more. “I won't come then. I'll stay clear.”

Thomas sniffed. “No, that's not the solution. I have to face this now. Let me punch you.”

“Come again?”

“Just once will do. I need to get this out of my system.” 

Draco had no time to dodge and the fist hit him hard in the stomach making him double over in pain. Above him Thomas breathed heavily, looking like he would love to murder Draco. 

After a moment though he let out a long sigh, briefly closed his eyes and offered Draco a hand to help him up. Tentatively, Draco took it and Finnigan held on for a moment longer than necessary. 

Then he let out a shaky laugh. “How about that drink now?”

“Yeah, I could use one, too,” Draco wheezed, still clutching his stomach with one arm. That guy was _strong_. 

“Before that though there's something else.” Finnigan glanced at Draco. Uh oh. “I heard... that is, Hermione said you are looking for a missing person?” 

Oh. Okay, that was a turnaround. “Yes,” Draco answered carefully.

“Cool, yeah, so, she said you were pretty good at, er, research and finding stuff and well, the thing is,” Thomas rubbed his neck, uncertain, “I'm looking for someone.” He produced a small paper covered in notes. “We were caught together by a gang of Snatchers. They took her somewhere else later. I don't know her name, but she was middle-aged, Muggle-born, brunette, average build. She said she had two kids at home. It's all on here.” He held the paper out to Draco. “She was nice to me and I never knew what became of her, if she's even still alive. Can you look for her?”

Draco stared at him flabbergasted. That was _the last thing_ he'd ever imagined was going to happen. 

For a hot second there he thought about explaining the Hunt thing to Thomas, but then he abandoned that idea. A boy he had wronged badly was asking for his help. Draco would find that woman and thusly clear a fraction of his debts.

“Yes, absolutely. I will look for her.” He took the paper.

“Okay.” Thomas fidgeted. “I guess you can tell me your progress on Saturdays then. Because Patchers' Quidditch is going to be a weekly thing.”

“Thanks,” Draco whispered. Then he cleared his throat. “Drink?”

“Hell, yeah.”

They walked back together and were greeted by the worried faces of Longbottom and Finnigan. 

“All sorted out,” Thomas told them and snatched the glass out of Finnigan's grip, handing it to Draco. “Now, cheers!” 

They clinked glasses and chatted about Quidditch and Hogwarts and the happy couple.

At one point Lovegood in a crazy dress appeared and, after silently scrutinising Draco for a full minute making him very nervous, she asked him to dance. 

“Er, I'm flattered Lovegood, but you _do_ remember the part where I imprisoned you in my house?”

“Yes,” she nodded solemnly, “a terrible place. Your aura was pitch black back then, but it looks much better now. So, dance?” She held her hand out for him to take. 

Weird girl. 

Weird world.

He took her hand.

*** 

_Associated with The Wild Hunt is also the fairy tale persona Mother Holle or Mother Hulda. She is said to own a pond that is a direct connection to the Otherworld which many believe to be the realm of the dead. Rumour has it that those who wish to leave The Hunt can walk into the next life by entering the pond 42.  
\------------------------------------------------------------  
42 Unconfirmed accounts state that a part of Holle's Pond is kept at the British Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries, supposedly in the form of an archway._

Draco slapped the book shut. Ever since he had told Teddy that story, Mother Holle was his favourite character of The Hunt. But reading the same thing over and over again would get him nowhere. 

Time for a break. 

“Honey, we're home~” 

Or not.

Summer was in full swing and the July sun was beating down through the open window when the newly-weds came back from their honeymoon in the Seychelles and showered Draco with souvenirs and stories in his private library. It was a bit of a surprise as it was Tuesday, not Wednesday. Therefore they found Draco dressed rather casually, lying flat on his stomach with the Potter-glasses on top of his head. Embarrassing.

“...so then she said _'Wouldn't you like to know'_ and I was like– Ferret! Are you even listening?” 

Draco had indeed been idly following the Weasel's story while lazily sipping a cocktail Hermione had produced from a small beaded handbag (Draco hadn't asked about that), until an unfamiliar Athene noctua owl had shot in from the outside.

Howard, draped on the rug, eyed the intruder with a whipping tail. The owl ignored him and dutifully delivered its mail to Draco. 

It was a small package and a letter. Draco unfolded the paper.

“What's it say?” Hermione leaned over his shoulder to have a look.

Draco shrugged her off. “Some privacy, woman? Geez, your husband is rubbing off on you.”

“That's not the only rubbing we've been doing,” leered the Weasel.

Draco cringed. “I do not want to hear anything _at all_ about your sex life, Ronald!”

“Well, better second-hand than none, right?” the ginger teased.

Draco was just about to bite back, when the girl of the group cut in: “Hey, boys, will you stop it? The letter, Draco?”

He glowered at her. Really, what gave her the right to be so demanding? Oh well.

Draco turned his focus back onto the paper and read:

_Dear Draco,  
I know you said you took all you needed from our private libraries, but I've been thinking about your Hunt problem and I've realised that maybe there is one place you hadn't searched yet.  
This is my late mother's special cookbook. She used it when she had fancy tea parties with her girlfriends. Take a look at page 92. That might help._

__

__

_Best wishes,  
Theo_

Draco wordlessly handed the letter to Hermione and proceeded in unwrapping an old, well-thumbed book titled _Cokinge for Wicches_. 

Draco, who had tried to produce edibles after a fashion since the end of the war, would have never dreamt of picking up a book like this. He was definitely more a crook than a cook, haha. 

But his clever schoolmate had thought outside the box. Figures, Nott (maybe Draco should start calling him Theodore now?) had always been the smartest of their bunch. 

As he browsed the pages, he understood what Theodore had meant – all the recipes for supposedly better skin and slimmer hips came with accompanying background stories.

On page 92 was a recipe for _Persephone's Eternal Youth Draught_. Yeah, as if that would work. 

The ingredients were only mildly interesting (tea leaves and then some), but the background information was a jackpot. Draco's eyes bulged.

“Listen to this!” He effortlessly translated from Middle English:  
_'”Persephone is the ancient goddess of life and death, and guardian of the crossroads between the two. Often depicted as She Who Holds The Key, she gifts fertility and her Draught will make you stay young forever!'_  
Blablabla. Some nonsense about this tea recipe, but then–  
_'Just don't ever call her real name out loud! It is forbidden. That is probably why she became the secret helper to those facing final judgement: It is whispered that if you call her then and can state your name, you'll be saved, even if you shouldn't be. If you can't though, you're condemned. Many artists were inspired by this story.'”_

“I don't see what that has got to do with The Hunt,” Ronald interrupted, twirling Theodore's letter between his fingers.

“Patience, Weasel! There's a poem added on the bottom of the page:  
_'Child, oh child, remember this,  
if they took you and you're amiss,  
ask for her blessing Persephone:  
Your name, your heart's name, can set you free  
and The Hunt, The Hunt will have to let you be.'”_

Draco looked up excitedly. “Sound familiar? It's a bloody forgotten stanza to The Hunt's Lullaby! Yes!”

“Could be. But Draco–“ Hermione started sceptically.

“No, I'm sure this is it! Persephone is one of the alter egos of the crone character in The Hunt. And there's the key right here: Call his name, that's all!” Draco laughed happily and toppled over backwards. 

“Okay that makes sense.” The witch nodded, taking the book from Draco. “Then the only thing left to do is to find Poppy." 

In the silence that followed two heads turned towards Draco.

"Hm?"

"No, it's just, normally you jump in here and correct us. What's that guy's name again?" the Ronald-Weasel asked.

Draco's brow furrowed. What _was_ the name again? He sat up. 

Percy! Patil? Peeves...? He couldn't recall. Draco started to panic. Peter? Pansy! Pans, pots - Potter! Potter!! Relief flooded him. 

"Potter," he sighed. He had to remember the kitchenware mnemonic trick somehow... and be more careful.

“We better find him quickly.” Hermione's face was serious. She had noticed Draco's slip-up.

“Yeah...”

*** 

Ever since unearthing the way to free Potter, Draco had redoubled his efforts of pinpointing the location of The Hunt. Yet while travelling around and following every tiniest hint, the days stretched into weeks and Draco found himself sans verified Hunt hideout on the last day of July.

It was an unusually sunny day and Draco, frustrated by the daily dose of non-results, decided to take a walk.

After carefully Apparating, he landed at Windsor Great Park, a public area also known as Windsor Forest and Great Park which was repeatedly mentioned as one of The Hunt's hunting grounds. Of course now, in summer, there would be nothing to find, but a first look wouldn't hurt.

The nice weather had attracted hordes of visitors and the park was packed with people. Draco studied a map and then ambled along the Long Walk, a pedestrian road that led like an axis through the middle of the park.

Draco's thoughts wandered as he soaked in the sunshine. He had missed walking. Back after his parents left for France, Draco used to hike a lot. But these days, he found himself much too busy to engage in simple strolling most of the time. 

Somehow, looking for Potter, doing research about The Wild Hunt and all things attached to that had taken over his life in a bizarre way. 

Tuesdays were Manor Library planning days and Hermione would show up around noon to discuss details (although he'd never agreed to be involved in that project in the first place), as well as her husband in the afternoon with questions on some potions Draco had agreed to help with for the shop (big mistake). 

Wednesdays he had Hunt research recap meetings with the Golden Couple over dinner.

Thursdays he would look into missing persons (somehow word had spread that he was good at finding people and so, new letters came in every other week). 

Saturdays were for Patchers Quidditch games with quite a bunch of Potter's friends.

And of course there were the Sundays he still used for actual patching at Hogwarts, on top of the bi-weekly Friday Slytherin get-together and his visiting-Greg trips to St. Mungo's on Mondays.

In between all these things to do and people to meet, Draco stuffed in as much Hunt research as possible, yet it felt never enough. 

Especially since he had the nauseating feeling that time was running out: There were days it took until after breakfast till he remembered _why_ he suddenly was a somewhat renowned pro in the field of The Wild Hunt and missing people.

Not today though. He had woken up knowing exactly who Potter was. 

Draco now followed an emptier path, leaving the masses behind. Even though he gradually became alright with wearing short sleeves in Muggle areas, he still felt uncomfortable baring his Dark Mark in public. 

A movement near a shaded park bench caught his attention. There on the earth, a barred grass snake was winding. The image stirred something inside him and made him come closer.

“Well, hullo there,” he cooed and felt a bit idiotic. “Are you lost?”

Draco snickered. “Weird, in the past, a snake would have made me think of Slytherin, now it only reminds me of him... all I do these days is think about him.” He sighed and sat down on the bench. “He can speak with your kind, you know? He's a Parselmouth.” 

The reptile made an eight-figure with its body, hissing quietly. Maybe it was chasing an insect or something. “Ha, look at me, talking to a snake.”

Draco suddenly shuddered. Being here at the park made him feel so much closer to Potter.

“Is it crazy that he's always on my mind? Even before... See, he got himself kidnapped by The Wild Hunt and now _I_ have to clean up his mess and look for him. It's driving me nuts because I finally _know_ what to do to get him freed, but I can't bloody find him. And all it would take is calling his name once. That's it! Easy enough one should think, but _no~_ , he has to be unlocatable.”

The sun painted glowing patterns on Draco's knees. They felt warm and pleasant. He put a hand on his thigh.

Hissing at times, the snake was still there, curled up at his feet, seemingly dozing off now. It was nice to have an audience that couldn't spill his secrets to others.

“Do you know what date it is? Right, how could you: It's July 31st, his birthday. He's nineteen years old today. Imagine that. Next year I'll know him almost half my life...” Draco quickly looked around and found himself alone with his snaky listener. He pulled his wand from his pocket and started burning little doodles in the sand – a lightning bolt, round glasses, a heart... 

A heart? Draco goggled the atrocity for a full thirty seconds before vanishing all of it, blushing violently. 

“It's not– I'm not– Don't you dare think that I would–” but the reptile didn't seem to care much about his stammering, eyeing a point right of Draco's shoulder. Of course, why would _a snake_ give a damn? Really, Draco, get it together. 

He stared at the disturbed earth. A heart. 

“I think I might have feelings for him.” Draco swallowed. There, he said it. World was still here. Good. Not the end of it then. 

Maybe sometimes you need someone, who just listens, for you to find your own truths. Yeah, he... maybe he liked Potter... a tiny bit. 

So, _perhaps_ the way Potter laughed when he was carefree was slightly breathtaking. Well, _possibly_ Draco thought it somewhat endearing that Potter’s pesky temper tantrums mostly occurred when he was defending other people. Also, Draco _might_ just find it cute how Potter blushed. Oh and not to forget that ass… But of course, these were all rather infinitesimal things. Not worth dwelling on, really. Ahem. 

Better change the topic.

“Do you think he'll come back with me once I find him?” Draco mused thoughtfully, voicing another thing he had never dared to face before. “What if he wants to stay with The Hunt? For all I found out they are a rather free bunch. Maybe he likes that... He... he's a good guy. That makes it hard on him sometimes. He forgives everyone eventually, even me. But not himself, I think. Even though he didn't do anything wrong, really. But sometimes I wonder if it could be that The Hunt took him because he wanted to be taken, as punishment or something.” 

Draco ran a hand through his hair. “I'll just have to make him then, right? After all, I'm not chasing storms all around the globe to come up empty-handed. I'll drag him back with me even if he's kicking and screaming. Yeah.”

Draco smiled down at the serpent, feeling suddenly chipper and full of energy. “Just you wait and see, I'll bring him next time, that's a promise.” His grin widened. “Thanks for the talk. You're not a bad listener.”

He got up as suddenly the snake hissed angrily. Shit. He backed away hastily. There you go, never talk to strangers or animals. “Sorry!” The reptile started pursuit. Uh oh, what did he do to make it so livid? Maybe it was an after-doze grump. 

Anyway, Draco decided not to stay and find out and took to his heels, running down the pathway until he reached one of the park's exits, Blacknest Gate. 

Only as he had crossed the park's border did he hesitate for a moment. He had felt so close to Potter here. Draco looked over his shoulder. 

“I'll find you,” he said to no one in particular, then Disapparated home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
>  _“Draco’s Theme”_ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6YDQEQHXaA  
> Dino Meneghin - If you need it so badly
> 
> I think it's when Draco's self-reflecting. Thoughtful and melancholic.  
> Picking up happy tunes when he thinks he's found something...  
> ...and regressing back to sad when it doesn't work.
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  _Cokinge for Wicches_ = cooking for witches (Middle English)
> 
>  **Trivia:**  
>  The Bridal Chorus from Wagner's opera Lohengrin is also known as "Here comes the Bride". You know it.  
>   
> The Athene noctua owl is known as the bringer of wisdom:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_owl  
>   
> Windsor Great Park:  
> https://www.windsorgreatpark.co.uk/en/visit/download-maps


	13. Intermezzo V: Gayly they ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy February, everyone ^^
> 
> This flashback chapter is a very special one as it was the 'birthplace' of all the intermezzi in the story - or rather the idea for all of them was inspired by this scene mentioned in the first chapter.  
> It takes a brilliant mind to have brilliant ideas. I call myself very lucky to have been graced with the fortune of having met a person possessing such a mind.  
> This chapter therefore is dedicated to the unparalleled umbrellaless22 and their marvelous inspiration and strength. 
> 
> In other news:  
> Last week marked the anniversarry of the first Covid-case in my country. Crazy, huh? Already a whole year...  
> I hope you all stay healthy <3
> 
> As for me: The upcoming chapter is long and a week is short, so I'll have to take one week off (sorry!). Expect the new chapter on the 15th... or later... (I might not be able to finish on time...)  
>  **Update: Yeah, I didn't manage, so it'll come next Monday (22nd), sorry T.T**
> 
> (Of course I'd love to hear what you think, so... comment? *puppy eyes*)
> 
> Cheers~

“Would you stop looking at me like that? I'm not up to something!” Draco grumbled. 

The answer was a huff.

“I'm re-planting trees for Merlin's sake! Would you give it a rest? I'm _trying_ to patch things, okay? How many apologies do you want?” Draco turned exasperatedly around to face his interlocutor.

The storm-grey hippogriff didn't seem convinced, orange eyes burning holes into Draco. 

“Ugh, fine then, do what you want. But seriously why don't you go play with that giant half-brother of Hagrid's instead, hm? He's such a cheerful chap, fun to be with, no?”

The animal clicked its beak with a dangerous sounding snap. Alright, better leave it.

Draco turned back to hovering a tree sapling into one of the two dozen cavities he had excavated earlier. 

There had been damages to the tree population of the Forbidden Forest during the Battle of Hogwarts, especially on the edges where spells had burned down and logged much of the old stand. 

As weary as Draco was of the Forest, others seemed to be even less inclined to do this work, so he had ended up marching out on his own on this crisp autumn day at the end of October (not super unusual per se). 

Here, under the branches, the air was still chilly and a smell of petrichor told of the rainfall earlier this morning. 

Draco would have probably shivered if he hadn't been working so hard that he sweated instead. Planting trees (even with magic) was rather laborious. He already knew he would be dead tired tonight. 

Also, being under constant scrutiny did not help to improve his working morale. 

He threw a resentful look at his self-imposed guard: Front legs folded neatly, Hagrid's hippogriff lay in the only patch of sunlight, watching Draco's every move. That beast.

This was not a new occurrence though. 

Every time in the last months when Draco had worked out on the grounds, the hippogriff had followed him around, hovering and seemingly making sure that Draco did nothing illegal.

Draco had realised the first time he'd seen that creature back at Hagrid's hut in sixth year that this was most certainly the very same animal that had attacked Draco in third year. Hagrid could call that beast any number of code names but it was still the hippogriff that should have been executed a long time ago. 

When Draco had spotted the _thing_ first during patching, he had not believed his eyes and had hastily departed from the grounds. However, as the fiend had decided to shadow him whenever possible, Draco had gotten used to it somehow. He had even (begrudgingly) tried to apologize, repeatedly so, but the hippogriff just wouldn't leave him alone. Although it should be a win for Draco that he hadn't been attacked again either. 

Just eyed. Very, very sharply. 

“Hello, Buckbeak –Witherwings!–, Malfoy, hey...”

Great. Another pesterer. “Save it, Potter, I know it's the same thing back from when it nearly killed me. Not that I care anymore.”

Potter, petting the gruesome beak, threw Draco a dark look. “Buckbeak's not an 'it', he's a he. And you're very lucky he forgave you.” Potter turned back to the animal. “That was big of you. Also, Hagrid wants you at the hut.”

As the hippogriff got up, he gave Draco one last calculating glare and then left gracefully. 

Draco grumbled: “Well, his forgiveness is about as believable as the pure coincidence that brought _you_ here.” 

“What was that?!” Potter's voice had a sharp edge to it that made Draco pause. That hadn't been such a terrible jab, so why was Potter getting so worked up? “If _he_ hadn't pardoned you, he would have already taken measures into his own... talons and _I_ came here to bloody help you, so maybe show some gratitude, you ass!”

“What's gotten your wand in a knot?” 

“Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that you laughed at the prospect of an innocent animal being murdered because of something childish _you_ did, on purpose. Is that enough to be cross with you, you think?” Potter was gaining momentum. 

Well, so was Draco: “What the hell, Potter, that was ages ago and I apologized for that, didn't I? Ask Hagrid, shit, ask Hippo. 'I'm sorry', how many times do I have to say it?”

“Maybe until you mean it?” Potter challenged.

“I _am_ meaning it, you git!”

Potter was really charged now: “Yeah? Then how about all the other occasions you were purposely cruel towards others? Let's see, how often did you nearly have me kicked out of school?”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but didn't get a word in.

“But you don't give a damn about others, do you? Not even the ones living under your own roof. You treated,” Potter choked, “ _Dobby_ like shit: He always had these injuries from punishments!”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. “That wasn't me. Besides, I'm not treating house-elves badly anymore.”

Potter laughed meanly. “Just because you don't have any. No one would want to work for _you_ – or with you really, as we can see by the fact you're all alone out here.”

Draco felt irritation bubbling up, but he pushed it down and concentrated on the saplings instead, back turned at Potter. “I'll have you know that I am decent with the kitchen elves these days; they sometimes bring me food while I'm patching. So, not _all_ alone.” 'And right now, I could do without you and your explosive mood', he only thought. No need to add fuel to the fire.

“You know what really annoys me?” Potter purposefully stepped in the path of Draco hovering a little tree. “The fact that you always rectify your behaviour, always try to explain it all away: _'Oh, it wasn't me, it was Umbridge, my father, Voldemort–'_ ” Potter showcased in a high pitched mock-voice.

“Can you turn it down a notch?” Draco hissed between gritted teeth. Slowly this was getting on his nerves. 

“I don't think so, no,” Potter's gaze was burning, a challenge. 

Bloody Draco's luck that Mr. Look-At-Me-I'm-So-Perfect had to come here and take his bad mood out on an innocent tree planter. 

Screw that. 

“Well, then how about _you_ finish this? As clearly a morally corrupt person like me should not handle young ones; I could contaminate the saplings.” Draco was seething now. He put the tree down. Time to retreat.

“Yeah, that's right, coward! Just run away. That's the thing you do best,” Potter spat as the gardener started gathering his things.

Draco straightened, anger blazing. “What is your problem, Potter?”

 _“I don't have a problem!”_ the other boy almost shouted.

Yeah, right. “Clearly.”

“Nothing a Death Eater like you could understand,” Potter sniffed, eyes following Draco's wand as it moved to silently clean dirt and leaves off his clothes.

“Ex-Death Eater.” Draco's voice was strained. 

Potter sneered: “Are you sure? There are spots that don't come off.”

SNAP. That was _it_!

Draco would not stand here and let himself get insulted just so Potter could feel better on what was clearly an off-day for the Glasses. 

Wordlessly, Draco started walking away.

The corners of his eyes were burning. It was bad enough to be stabbed with words like that, but even worse that it was Potter. Draco had thought they would get along now. He had thought they were good. But that Potter still thought of Draco like that... Death Eater... Bloody Merlin, get a grip, Draco, crying won't bloody help.

As he passed Potter Draco bumped hard into his shoulder. Potter in turn grabbed Draco's arm and yanked him back.

“Don't walk away from me!”

Draco tried to shake him off, anger taking over. “Hands off, Potter!”

The grip on his arm tightened. “You can't leave me.” 

Potter's eyes were wild and Draco's patience finally gave out.

“Get! Off! Me!” 

What Draco had tried to do was to draw his wand, what actually happened was that Potter moved at the same time which ended with Draco's elbow hitting Potter full in the face. 

From then on things regressed rapidly, both boys punching, kicking, yelling, scratching and pulling hair like furies. 

They were rolling on the forest ground, ringing with each other, faces anger-red and clothes tousled. 

Potter was spitting mad and Draco had trouble avoiding all the attacks directed at him – verbally and physically. 

Maybe it wasn't the best idea to have a fist fight with the Chosen One. Time to end this.

Draco used his momentum to gain leverage on the other boy and managed to pin him down. As much as he struggled, he couldn't get out and Draco held Potter's wrists in an iron grip on either side of Potter's head. 

Their furious faces only inches apart, Potter's breath huffed hot on Draco's cheeks. “I don't know who rained on your parade, Scarhead, but I've got enough of your little-boy-tantrum. Start again and I'll hex you.” With a final hard squeeze Draco pushed Potter's arms away and sat up on his heels.

To his horror the boy underneath him started sobbing. Thick, painful sobs that told of big inner turmoil. As if the aggressiveness hadn't been enough of a sign of that.

Draco's ire crumbled a bit and he wavered, unsure of what to do next. “Look here, Potter, I don't know what's going on, but–”

He was cut off as Potter abruptly moved up and basically threw himself at Draco. Bodily. Draco lost his balance and fell backwards, landing on his behind, Potter half on top of him. The latter was now bawling his eyes out, hands tightly fisted into the front of Draco's robes. Wonderful, really _just_ what Draco needed. This wasn't uncomfortable or anything, nope. 

He sighed deeply and shifted so that he could put both arms around the crying boy in his lap. One hand started stroking Potter's untameable mane (finding it surprisingly soft) and Draco forced his anger down, beginning to whisper soothing words into Potter's ear, Draco's chin on top of Potter's head.

Eventually the shivering stopped and Potter calmed down. 

Then he spoke: “Ginny and I broke up.”

“I see.” Draco carded his fingers through Potter's locks.

“She said that we had to stop seeing each other, that we couldn't be together.” Potter's voice was thick with tears.

“Hm,” hummed Draco. Now probably wasn't the best time to point out that Potter had barely ever spent time with his girlfriend anyway and that this break-up had been inevitable. Also, Draco had seen it coming from miles away. Good riddance, if you asked him. 

“She was really nice, sat me down and said that she felt like my heart wasn't in it anymore. Hic. She, she said that it was better to be just fr-friends.” The words were muffled as Potter's face was still pushed into Draco's chest.

Shockingly, Draco found himself agreeing with a Weasley for once in his life. 

Now was the time to be supportive though. “I mean, you could probably win her back by showing her your heart is indeed in it and all. If that's what you want.” Draco paused, considering. Why did these words feel like acid on his tongue? “What _do_ you want, Potter?” 

Potter's grip tightened in Draco's robes. 

Then, after a long moment, Potter whispered, raw from crying: “I don't know.”

Well, better than wanting to get back together. Draco shook his head, wondering why he even cared. Then he snuggled his cheek into Potter's hair (to comfort Potter, _obviously_ ).

So they remained. 

Time became meaningless. 

Draco watched the birds in the treetops. A light breeze moved the branches. Cold, seeping into his back from the floor, was contrasted by Potter's hot body. Forest smells mixed with a sweet scent that reminded Draco vaguely of treacle tart. A moment detached from time, just Potter and Draco and tranquillity. 

Maybe it wasn't entirely terrible holding Potter like this. Not that Draco would ever say that out loud, although their closeness wasn't that unusual nowadays: After all, since that sunrise at the memorial site in August, Potter's casual touches had been rather frequent. No sense of personal space, that guy. But... they weren't _all_ bad...

“I think she was right,” Potter finally said, sitting up carefully and rubbing at his eyes. “I wanted a relationship so badly that I overlooked all the signs that this one didn't fulfil me. Maybe.” He cleared his throat. “Thanks for listening and, er, sorry I was such an idiot earlier. I guess I needed an outlet and there you were and... I shouldn't have though. Really, I'm sorry, Malfoy.” He smiled a tiny smile.

“It's alright, Potter. You weren't wrong with what you said about me.” Seeing Potter so hurt, Draco was in a generous mood.

“No, that was awful of me,” Potter shook his head vehemently, “and I truly don't think of you like that, you know?” His blood-shot eyes were pleading now. “I really, really don't think you're a Death Eater anymore. I just,” he swallowed, “I was just looking for a way to rile you up.”

Draco smiled humourlessly. “Mission accomplished.”

“Are you very mad?” Potter looked like a kicked puppy. 

For heaven's sake. Draco took a _deep_ breath. “No, not very. But you owe me a Butterbeer.” 

Potter grinned at that. “Sure thing.” He gestured at the knocked over saplings. “Shall we finish this first though?”

“Yeah, maybe best.”

It took the rest of the day to plant all the new trees and by the time they were done, they both felt like they could fall asleep while standing.

As they made their way towards the gates Potter's mood suddenly seemed to plummet back to not-great. He scowled.

“What's it now?” Draco sighed.

“Sorry?”

“You look like a rain cloud.”

“Oh, I just realised it's Halloween this weekend. Ginny and I had thought of going to visit my parents' graveside together.” 

Right, Potter's parents had been killed on All Hallows' Eve. “Yeah, that's unfortunate.”

The newly single saviour gave Draco a pondering side-glance. “...do _you_ have any plans for Halloween?" 

Draco nearly tripped. Potter couldn't possibly mean.... or could he...? Okay, gamble. "Yeah, actually just made some today." 

Potter's face fell. “Ah.”

"I'm going to Godric's Hollow to pay my respects to some war heroes." Draco shot Potter a look filled with mirth. "Maybe you want to tag along?" 

"That would be great," beamed the other boy with a smile brighter than the sun.

Sometimes Potter was really easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WT491Q7lOYo  
> Madilyn Bailey - Safe and Sound
> 
> A (music) piece of comfort, Draco to Harry.


	14. Chapter 8: Throw cares away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,  
> happy belated Valentine's! Happy belated Chinese/Korean/Vietnamese New Year!
> 
> Wow, this chapter (alternative chapter title: A Year with Seeker and The Wild Hunt) really turned out so much, _much_ longer than I had anticipated ^^° In retrospective, it would have been better to split this one into two, but in my defence, when I wrote down my plot outline for this chapter, it had exactly one bullet point. Things just kinda happened from there on. Anyhow, now you get one chapter with the length of two!
> 
> If you now think 'Oh God, too long', here the cliff note version (in no particular order):  
> mortal danger, unexpected romance, betrayal, confession(s), an escape, fun and games, an arrogant side character, lore, love, heartbreak - and fairies (of sorts)!  
> ...maybe just read it after all XD 
> 
> Big shoutout to evil-forces-fighting umbrellaless22 for still taking time to tame my grammar  
> (at least the first half, every blunder in the second half is totally mine). 
> 
> Also, this chapter contains my favourite scene so far.  
> I'm curious if anyone saw that coming (some were close!) - show of hands?
> 
> xoxo Mimbelwimbel

“I'm going back. I'm going back right now! Lightning, come _ON_.” But Lightning, the horse, gleefully ignored his master's wishes and pranced on with The Wild Hunt.

Seeker, glasses askew, tried fruitlessly to yank the reins around, but the animal stayed stoically on track, each second carrying them further away from the barn and the boy with the storm-grey eyes.

“Bloody hell! Ember,” Seeker shouted over his shoulder, “help me! I need to turn around!”

Ember didn't seem fazed and simply re-positioned baby Dreamer in one massive, sooty arm. “You can't. The Hunt goes forward, never back.”

“That's great and all, but I want – _I need_ – to go see him, the boy at the barn!”

“Seeker, calm down! We're already over another country,” Wolfe tried to convince him. Her face caught the first light of the moon that tinted her scars silvery.

“I don't care!” Seeker's tense energy had his body high-strung. 

“That guy won't probably even be there anymore,” BraveHeart supplied unhelpfully and added giddily. “But look! Snowdrop and Scoffer are doing loop-the-loops! Amazing!” He promptly attempted a try of his own.

“Then I'll go search for him!” Seeker's eyes were blazing. He had no thoughts for owls or men-turned-dogs at the moment.

“How about this,” Half said emphatically, his red hair floating in the wind like a cloud, “we're about to land over there, see? Let's talk this through once we're down, yeah?”

“Fiiiiine,” Seeker whinged and let the reins loose, collapsing on his horse's neck. He hated it, but he had no choice and ever since he joined The Hunt, his friends had not steered him wrong, so maybe it was a good idea to listen to their advice first. 

Yet all he wanted to do was to go back to _him_. 

Why though? Not completely sure himself, Seeker turned to rest his cheek on Lightning's soft hair. Just something about the blond boy had shaken him so thoroughly that Seeker simply _knew_ he had to speak to him... and maybe hold onto him and never let him go? Seeker shooed the notion away. Weird thoughts like that kept popping up now. That's why he needed to meet Barn Boy, to settle this, yeah.

When they touched down to earth, the usual storm cloud of snowflakes and laughter enveloped them as the other members of The Hunt unmounted. People and animals alike scattered to huddle in groups on the hilltop they had landed on. A variety of noises in addition to chatter filled the air as they made ready to set up camp for the night, business as usual.

Not for Seeker though, he was antsy. He jumped down from Lightning's back and frustratedly watched as everyone else moved super-slow and then – were they for real? – attempted to start a camp fire.

“We don't have time for that!” he nearly shouted. “I need to go back now!”

Wolfe, petting her horse, Binky, looked at him with furrowed brows. “Ember told you – The Hunt doesn't go backwards.”

“Yes, yes,” Seeker snorted, throwing his hands in the air. “But you all also said that you spent your summer mostly at Hoher Meißner and then we went back there, so The Hunt _does_ go back sometimes.”

“To places, yeah, but never straight back along its own track,” Wolfe nodded. “It's impossible, actually.” 

“It's not!” Seeker gritted his teeth.

“Oh, but it is, it _so_ is! Hunt magic. Biscuit?” BraveHeart, the gang's secret food storer, had opened a bag of assorted sweets and was offering them to everyone.

“Fuck!” Bloody Hunt magic and Hunt rules and Hunt everything. Seeker was so done with this. He'd been almost content for a while, but now... that boy... enough was enough. “I don't care what you say: I'm going back.”

Ember, feeding a piece of food to Scoffer the man-dog, didn't even look up. “And we don't care what _you_ say: You can't just go back.”

“Watch me,” Seeker spat and made a move to get back onto his horse. 

“Okay, okay, but before you go, let's all have a cup of tea together, shall we? After all, today was The Last Ride of the year _and_ you are saying that you want to leave us. A farewell drink won't harm now, will it?” Half's calm face soothed Seeker's frayed nerves a bit.

“Yeah, I, sure, okay, you're right, yeah,” Seeker ran a hand through his unruly black hair and smiled sheepishly. Of course, going back now would mean leaving his friends behind. His heart felt torn. Yet he had made up his mind the moment his eyes had met the other boy's. Seeker simply needed to speak with Grey Eyes; even if that meant saying goodbye to his gang. 

He dropped down at the already burning fire and sighed. “I'll take that biscuit after all, BraveHeart.”

Uncharacteristically silent, the tiny boy handed over the sweets and sat down next to Seeker. 

Everyone was gathering now: Wolfe and Half, Ember and Dreamer, Snowdrop and Scoffer, even the horses – Lightning and Gee and Binky and Grapes. All of them, humans and animals, ghosts and whatnots. 

Seeker swallowed. This would be harder than anticipated. 

“Don't be sad,” Half said comfortingly. “It's all going to be okay.” 

The redhead had produced a couple of mismatched goblets from somewhere and now filled them with water, throwing in weird looking leaves. 

Seeker eyed his drink sceptically as everyone grabbed one. 

Half grinned. “It's special-occasions-tea. I snuck these herbs from Berchthold's magical garden in Holle's Pond.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Don't ask me how I did it, but it surely wasn't easy to get them.” At the others' goggling, he laughed. “Let's just say I have my sources. Cheers – or Na Zdravi as they say here in Czech! To Seeker of The Hunt!”

“To Seeker!” they echoed.

'To you', Seeker thought and emptied his cup.

*** 

“Seeker, wake up! We're moving on.” Ember had not-too-gently nudged Seeker in the side with his giant foot. 

“Wuzzat?” Seeker startled, sitting up and feeling disoriented. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead! Fallen asleep at the fire, have we?” BraveHeart chirped into Seeker's ear and handed him a piece of dried meat. “Here. Breakfast's on the go.”

“Everyone ready? Ember, why don't you ride with me today?” Wolfe tossed her hair back and mounted Binky. “You don't mind, do you, Seeker?”

“Ah, no... no.” Seeker's head was foggy. 

“You're not much of a drinker, are you?” Half had come over and offered him a hand up, which Seeker took thankfully. 

“I guess not,” he groaned. “What did we do last night? Hell, what did we do all of yesterday? My memories are hazy...”

For a moment, Half looked guilty, but the sentiment quickly disappeared. “We drank a bit. But aside from your headache, everything will be fine.” His smile had a touch of something darker to it that Seeker couldn't quite place. “It's all going to be okay.”

Seeker nodded and climbed up Lightning's back, holding on for dear life and feeling ill – and what's more, like he had forgotten to do something important. But The Hunt was moving on and his horse knew the way and why worry? He laid his head onto Lightning's neck and tried for a bit more sleep, another knot on his bracelet turning red.

*** 

“Shush! Quiet now. This way!” Seeker nodded his head to the right and the group of two dozen people followed him unquestioningly through the undergrowth. 

Specks of March sun sprinkled the forest floor and revealed the first spring flowers between the tree trunks.

When they reached a clearing which was at one side shielded by a rock formation, Seeker gave the halt sign and the group formed a circle around him. “Okay, this is a good spot. We'll plant the flag on top of the rocks; this way, part of us can surround the rock area and observe, while the others try to capture the opponent team's flag.” 

There were nods all around. Seeker, the newbie wearing Perchta's crown, had proven to have a knack for this sort of thing and no one questioned his leadership skills anymore. 

“Everyone remember the rules?” Half took over, eyeing them all sharply. “We hide our flag here; the other team hides its. Whichever team finds the rival contenders' flag first, wins. If you yourself get 'captured', you have to return to Holle's Pond and wait till the end of the game.” He was pacing between them. “That is unless you can find or create a permitted hiding spot – which can be what, Wolfe?”

Wolfe growled. “I've beat your ass a hundred times already, I bloody know the rules.”

Half didn't blink. “Humour us.”

“Fine,” she said flippantly, examining her nails as she spoke. “According to the rules, safe zones are either under flax stalks (good luck finding those in the forest). Or you can create hiding spots by cutting one to three crosses into a hollow tree trunk with your axe while saying _'Gott wael's'_ – now repeat that!” The group did. “And don't forget: The more crosses the longer your hideout is valid. Got it? Good, now show me your axes. Okay, but don't get any ideas, we don't want anyone hurt! ”

Seeker's thumb traced idly the rather blunt edge of his small axe. They were part of the game since forever, he'd been told, and mostly just decoration. But he still didn't like the idea of carrying a weapon. Yet marking and using hiding spots had won his team many victories and he was not about to lose this round.

“Divide the group,” he told Half and turned to BraveHeart at his side. “Do you still have the flag?”

“Sure thing! Wouldn't lose it, boss,” the tiny, masked boy grinned like a Cheshire cat, visibly proud to have been named flag bearer of this game. He pulled out a crumpled piece of rainbow-coloured cloth from his pocket and presented it.

“Can you get it up there?” Seeker pointed at the rock formation.

“Yep, no problem. Hey, good thing you stayed with us, eh? Your plans of leaving The Hunt were really irrational after a–oops! I-I meant,” BraveHeart suddenly stuttered, “I'll better get– yeah, hehe, er, up he goes.” With that he started climbing, abandoning his confused friend. 

Seeker furrowed his brows. What had BraveHeart been talking about? Leaving The Hunt? When had he ever wanted to leave The Hunt? Here, where his friends were, where he was free and every day was fun – who would ever want to leave? He shook his head. BraveHeart, that overexcited child, was simply spouting nonsense since he was so happy to have a main part in this game's round, surely. 

In the meantime Wolfe and Half were sorting their group into protectors and captors. 

Seeker watched them idly. Today's team was a wild mix of humans of all shades and a handful of moss folk. Those were still odd to him.

When The Hunt had first arrived at this forest, Seeker had been very startled by the little child-like creatures whose whole bodies were covered in moss. Some of them looked old, some ugly but others were almost pretty and all of them had a human flair somehow.

“Perchta is their 'mother',” the others had explained. “They serve her and take care of Holle's Pond and food and all these things, for her and The Hunt. They even heal riders should they get injured. But the moss folk themselves don't ride with us. They just wait during the Yuletide till we settle somewhere for the rest of the year. We saw them last time, when we laid low at Hoher Meißner in summer and autumn. They are a fun little people, but most of them only come out at night.”

That had turned out to be true. Moss folk were barely seen during daylight hours. That their team today had five of them was purely because these little guys _loved_ playing Capture The Flag. 

They also loved doing mischief and planting trees. 

The latter Seeker had found out was rather useful sometimes.

As his group members discussed last bits of strategy, his mind went back to the day The Hunt had come to this area. He remembered feeling groggy from drinking too much the night before and he had been very grateful to simply lay down and rest while the others had taken care of finding a nice camping place in the middle of an open forest on a wide clearing near Holle's Pond (which had once again travelled on ahead of The Hunt). 

Seeker had watched them set up this and that until his eyes had been drawn to a soft Somewhen glow in the shadows, between the trunks. There, almost out of sight, had walked a majestic, giant stag in whose wake all trees had withered. Seeker had recognized him without anyone needing to tell him: Berchthold.

It had been the last time Seeker would see him for a while, as the gang had informed him that The Hunt's leader rode solitarily outside of winter time: Berchthold ruled The Hunt during Twelvetide, Perchta during the rest of the year.

Thinking about it, Seeker wasn't all that surprised that Berchthold could also shapeshift and that his animal form was a stag. Figured really, since he usually sported antlers and all. 

His tendency to destroy trees though made the happiness with which moss folk re-planted them come in very handy. 

“Did I miss something?” BraveHeart landed next to Seeker and wiped some sweat off his forehead, startling his friend out of his reverie. 

“No, you're just in time. You'll be a captor today.” Seeker raised his voice: “Now, everyone, gather round! We got this. Let's win us a piece of forest. See you at the Pond when it's over!”

They dispersed. 

Of the gang, Seeker and Wolfe had stayed back with half of the team as protectors, while Half and BraveHeart went forward with the other half as captors.

Since The Hunt's games of Capture The Flag were accumulating, at that moment, about two thirds of forest territory 'belonged' to Seeker's team and should they win today they would gain another body of land. 

Grinning at the prospect, Seeker found a hollow tree and cut three crosses into the bark while reciting the incantation. He didn't like being a protector all that much. Captor was far more his style. Waiting around for something to happen was boring. He liked the action better. 

Maybe if he snuck away he could...?

“Don't touch me! We spread plagues!” 

Uh oh. Seeker peered around the tree he'd taken cover behind: One of his team mates, a moss person, was on the verge of being captured by– Ember, of all people, bloody hell.

Ember, after reluctantly leaving Dreamer in Scoffer's care, had, to everyone's displeasure, decided to join the opposing team.

“They have a cooler flag,” Ember had grinned, when the gang had asked him and Seeker had once again been hit by the feeling of deep unease regarding the big, broad-shouldered boy. 

Or maybe it simply was the flag, really. After all, the skull-and-bones Jolly Roger of the opponent team always made Seeker shudder with a deep-seated aversion and when he had told his friends so, all but Ember had agreed. There was just something dark about that skull...

However, Ember choosing the other team meant that right now they were rivals and Seeker had to act. 

“Hey, big guy, over here!” 

Risking to get caught himself, Seeker sprinted out from his hiding spot, using the element of surprise to grab the moss person and make a U-turn, before Ember even had time to react.

“Stop right there, you!” the sooty boy roared and set off to hunt them down.

Darn, that big oaf was _fast_! Not surprising, though, of someone who had run alongside The Hunt for days. 

Seeker and his team mate made it into the hollow tree by a hair. Squeezed together uncomfortably, they both gasped for air. Meanwhile, Ember unable to 'capture' them as they were in a safe zone swore colourfully and stomped his huge feet. 

“You can't hide in there forever!”

“Nope, but you don't have time to wait us out. We have three crosses which means fifteen minutes. Unless you want to miss the capturing of the flags, I'd say you go, Emberly,” Seeker teased.

The other boy glared at them, seemingly undecided which path to choose. Just then a loud clamour from the left side of the forest told them that the game most likely was over and Seeker's team had won once again.

“Shit!” Ember cursed and spat onto the ground.

The two winning team's members untangled and got up. 

“Good game, Em. Sorry for... you know. No hard feelings?” Seeker held out his hand, but Ember was still seething and stomped away with 'bad loser' written all over his broad, retreating back.

Seeker shrugged. “He doesn't like losing, don't mind him.”

“I don't,” said the little person and swept some dried leaves off their moss. “But I do appreciate the help earlier.”

“Yeah, no problem. We're on the same team after all. Let's go celebrate, shall we?” 

“It's not a given to put oneself in danger to save others, Master Seeker. I will compensate you with good advice: Look at the stars.”

“The stars...?” Seeker tilted his head upwards, but of course, it was daytime and also the trees hindered his view. When had he last seen the stars though? Sure, during flying there had been sun and moon (and probably stars), but here inside the forest realm? At all times a big snow cloud hovered over the base camp at Holle's Pond, so... Really, it had been forever since Seeker had regarded a unveiled night sky.

He was about to tell that to his companion, when he found, he was alone in the forest. He clicked his tongue. Little moss bastard, what a prank to leave Seeker alone like a fool.

Well, celebrations awaited.

*** 

“April fool!” 

“Argh!” Seeker, who was in the middle of a game of ninepins with the gang, suddenly found himself at the centre of a cloud of feathers which apparently had exploded from the pin he had just hit. 

“That, p, is not, pp, funny!” he complained while spitting out fluff and rubbing at his eyes – the prank had even snuck behind his glasses.

Meanwhile his friends roared with laughter, BraveHeart even falling to the floor shaking. 

It was funny though, if Seeker was truthful. He tried to hide a grin, but failed. “You guys are the worst,” he chuckled. “Just wait till I get back at you.” He picked more feathers out of his hair and never-withering flower crown. 

It had started in the morning with Wolfe serving candy apples for breakfast... Seeker had only found out after the first hearty bite that they were indeed candy _onions_. He had simultaneously cried and spat out for half an hour, cursing those wicked pranksters up and down.

Then there had been the incident when Half had abruptly started screaming at Seeker not to move since there was a HUGE spider on his head (obviously not, but it still had had Seeker's heart rate going up like crazy). 

Also that time in the afternoon when Ember, Dreamer in arms, had unpromptedly looked at Seeker and nonchalantly told him that Ember, by the way, would kill him for losing the Jolly Rogers every game lately. It had been such an intense moment that Seeker hadn't been sure what to think, Ember's eyes dangerously calm. After a few seconds the travel companion had barked a laugh and shaken his head: “Just joking, man.” But Seeker hadn't been completely convinced. Ember would always have a darkness to him somehow.

Now, during setting-in dusk, Seeker was tired of the pranks. He grumbled under his breath, brushing feathers off his clothes. It had been such a nice game!

Something warm landed on his shoulder. 

“Hello, Snowdrop, you're my only real friend here,” Seeker said in a lamenting tone, purposely ignoring the still giggling other players. 

He reached out and petted his owl. She cooed into his ear, holding out a leg. 

Seeker's brows furrowed. “What do you have there?”

Skilfully wrapped around Snowdrop's ankle was something that seemed to be a rolled-up leaf. Seeker carefully extracted it and unfurled the green sheet.

“Woah, you got an invitation! How cool! Can I come with? Please? Please, please, pleassseeee?” BraveHeart's shoulder was pressing hard into Seeker as the smaller boy tiptoed to get a better look at the... 'invitation'?

Seeker blinked. Indeed, there really were miniscule letters on the leaf, barely to make out. He squinted his eyes and tried to decipher the text:

_The moss folk dance throughout the night.  
You'll find us at our clearing, sprite.  
You and your friends, at darkness fall:  
Join us in a masquerade ball!_

“Un! Believable!” Half pried the invite from Seeker's hands and stared at with eyes huge as his sense of humour. “Being asked to attend the moss folk celebrations is like the highest possible honour. Wow mate, they must really like you.”

“Well, he wins them a lot of Capture The Flag games, doesn't he?” Ember threw in, leaning over Half's shoulder. “Tonight's a bit spontaneous though, no? I have nothing to wear.” 

Wolfe snorted. “You _never_ have _anything_ to wear, Ember. You are barely clothed as is.” She pointedly looked at the small piece of old robes just about hiding his privates. “I, however, need a new dress pronto.” She shot the clouded sky a calculating glance. “Will be dark soon, I better hurry.” With that she made to leave.

“Maybe,” Half said dryly, raising an eyebrow, “you would like to ask Seeker first if he would be so kind as to take us along?”

She turned while continuing to scurry away, now walking backwards. “Of course we're going with him, right, Seeker?” She didn't wait for a reply. “And in case you were wondering, yes, _you_ can go with _me_ to the ball. But only if you behave! Now, gotta run, dresses don't borrow themselves.” 

Half, mouth half-open, blinked, then shook his head in disbelief. “Girls! Am I right?”

“Hilarious,” Seeker drawled, looking bored. “You can stop acting now. _'April fool!'_ Got it. Very well done.” He lazily clapped his hands twice. Damn them if they tricked him one more time today. This was obviously a prank. “I can't believe you are in on this, though, Snowdrop. I thought you'd stick by me.” 

The owl hooted indignantly and pecked Seeker's ear non too friendly. 

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“That,” Ember remarked, fumbling with his robes, “was _'you're not just an April fool but an everyday fool'_ in owl speech. This is no prank.”

“Oh, stop it already. It's getting ridiculous.” Seeker rubbed the attacked ear and glared at Ember.

“ _You_ are ridiculous. Seeker, this is real!” Half huffed exasperatedly and rolled his eyes. “BraveHeart, do you think you could make us some masks for tonight?” 

The addressee's head snapped towards the group, eyes beaming. “Absolutely!” He had to shout, since he was currently several feet away, telling other Hunt members that his good friend Seeker got an invitation to one of the moss folk's famous masquerade balls and wasn't that just _awesome_. 

“Er, so... this is a legit thing? The ball?” Seeker carefully ventured.

“Yep, totally,” Half nodded.

And that was that.

The game forgotten, Half and Ember disappeared somewhere to do who-knew-what which left Seeker with the task of looking after the horses. They didn't really need all that much taking care of these days, however, since there was a corner at the edge of the forest where food was provided by the moss folk to feed the whole herd of Hunt horses.

So Seeker found himself wandering back to the gang's camp fire after having petted Lightning for a bit (though Lightning had seemed to be far more interested in munching on some of the left-over feathers still sticking to Seeker's wardrobe). 

The fire was already lit, with Scoffer curled around Dreamer to one side of BraveHeart who was sedulously working on painting onto four masks of different shapes.

“Where did you get those?” Seeker sat down next to the busy artist, startling the latter.

“Oh, er, these are my back-ups.” BraveHeart held one out for the other boy to inspect. “What do you think about this one for you?”

Seeker looked at the mask in his hands: It showed a lush, sun-flooded forest, not unlike their current surroundings.

“I thought the green would bring out your eyes,” BraveHeart explained, looking nervous.

“It's beautiful, B, thank you.” Seeker put the mask on. It fit well. “I didn't realise you could paint like this. I guess I just assumed your own mask was painted by... someone else.”

The tiny boy smiled gently, while putting the finishing touches on a flame-covered mask that was certainly meant for Ember. “I simply like to capture what I see on a medium that I can carry around with me. Does that sound weird?”

“To want something to hold on to? No, not weird at all.” Seeker reached for a drying, garishly coloured mask that had 'Half' written all over it. “I have been wondering though: Why _do_ you wear a mask all the time?”

The hand with the brush paused mid-air and BraveHeart glanced at Seeker, then quickly looked away. “I rather see than be seen; even though it doesn't seem like it with me being constantly so loud,” he mumbled under his breath. “Not very brave at all, I know. But I... I can't really explain it, but I feel like I need to hide because there are bad people out there who want to hurt me for I'm not how they want me to be.” He gave a humourless laugh. “Yes, I'm aware that's not the case, but it's still... I can't just turn it off. I feel like this might have something to do with my life, when I still lived, you know? Anyway, this,” he touched his own landscape-mask, “is my protection.”

“It's also a wall between us,” Seeker said quietly.

They sat in silence for a while, between them only the crackling of the fire and Scoffer's snoring. 

Seeker was lost in thought, staring into the flames when the others finally came back. 

He, too, had something to hold on to, even though he wasn't quite sure what it meant to him. The handkerchief with the embroidered D wandered from one hand to the other. D. D like... like what? Why was it, his heart clenched when he looked at it and why–

“Well?! What do you lowbrows think? Is this a dress or what?” Wolfe paraded her borrowed pearl tulle dress like a model on the catwalk. The fine layers of her garment were billowing in a light breeze.

“Wo-how!” Half wolf-whistled at Wolfe. “Yeah! That's my girl!”

Ember, who had somehow managed to find some clothing, snickered and Seeker sneered. He was about to mock the ginger for his slip-up (his girl, as if) when Wolfe let herself be pulled into a kiss by Half. Er, okay?

The kiss, first almost chaste but quickly passionate, went on and on, while BraveHeart had an attack of giggles, Ember goggled and Seeker wondered whether someone had hit him on the head unnoticed. Half and Wolfe were bickering more often than not, when did _that_ turn into week-long public snogging sessions?

Seeker cleared his throat. “Ahem, so, er, how long has this been going on then?”

For an endless moment the couple didn't appear to have listened, but then they pulled apart, hair wild and cheeks flushed.

Half grinned like a lottery winner. “No time like the present.”

“Wait, you mean, this was your _first kiss_?” Seeker screeched disbelievingly.

“I always had a thing for redheads,” Wolfe remarked, not taking her eyes off Half's face. “Let's go, lover, I want to dance with you!”

Hand in hand they rushed ahead, leaving the three boys standing and staring after them. 

“Well, that was something,” Seeker rasped, scratching his neck.

“What _exactly_ was that though? I don't get it,” said Ember, complete confusion on his face. “Are they like _a thing_ now?”

“They totally are, meep! I'm so excited! Isn't this great?” BraveHeart bounced on his heels, but then his expression suddenly changed to determination. “And I'm going to do what I want, too. At least for one night.” With a flowing movement, he ripped off his mask. “This is a masquerade ball after all, where you don't show your face the way you normally do. I'm going maskless tonight.”

Well, there must have been something in the late supper, because people were behaving strangely all around. Still, Seeker smiled. “Bare face looks good on you, BravestHeart.”

The tiny boy glowed with pride at the nickname and puffed out his chest. “Shall we, then?” 

Forth they went to the moss folk clearing where they were greeted by unearthly music and floating lights and laughter. Hunt people and moss folk alike were moving to the melody. Above them all, the snowflakes were dancing at their own pace, swirling, so fragile as they floated through the midnight air, reflecting a thousand shimmers onto the spirit dancers. 

“Breathtaking – just like you,” Half purred, eyes glued to Wolfe's face with a love-struck expression.

“Mate, can you be more cheesy?” Seeker chuckled and elbowed him playfully.

“We should just find you a partner as well, jester. How about that girl over there or that guy in the hat?” Wolfe pointed.

“No, I'm good. I...” already have someone? But he didn't say that out loud. He wasn't sure himself where that thought had come from.

Later, while he was dancing with one person or the other, Seeker felt as though he were in a dream and he wondered what the longing deep down in his stomach could mean – the longing to dance with somebody who loved him – and whether he would ever have it. Although, some part of him whispered that maybe once he _had_ indeed had it. Yet the quiet voice was drowned out by the atmosphere of the celebrations which lasted well into the early hours of the next day.

*** 

Spring turned into summer and Holfe fought and made up on a daily basis. 

While the woods around them were green and full of life, the base camp at Holle's Pond continued to be under a permanent layer of clouds, the ground covered with powdery snow. 

Seeker had long gotten used to the perennial white and also to the fact that Hunt magic kept them warm – and that living with Half meant being hit with the icy substance every other day. 

As far as news went, Berchthold hadn't come back from his _stag_ out. Things at The Hunt were one big endlessly continuing party. All days were filled with fun and mirth. 

It was one early afternoon in June as Seeker was absent-mindedly playing with the D-handkerchief. He had taken to wearing it on his wrist next to his Hunt bracelet, of which half of the knots were white and half red by now.

He knew what the red knots meant, but truthfully, he wasn't that afraid of dying anymore. Here in The Hunt, it wouldn't change anything for him. Seeker sometimes wondered why he had ever made a fuss about this. He was happy... and yet, there was a part of him (that he deliberately ignored) that constantly whispered of other things, of something _more_ , out there.

His thoughts were aimlessly wandering, when his head suddenly snapped up, confusion written on his face. Something had occurred to him. 

“Say... when we first met, didn't you tell me The Hunt had picked you up only a few months before me?” he spoke to no one in particular.

“Mhm? Yeah, that's right,” responded Wolfe sluggishly. She was sitting with her legs crossed and eyes closed while Half was trying to braid some new daffodils into her hair (emphasis on _trying_ – Seeker already knew this would end in another argument).

“Why are you asking?” BraveHeart lay on his stomach, his mask riding on top of his mouse-brown hair. While he couldn't let go of the mask completely, there were more and more times when he openly showed his face. Seeker couldn't be prouder.

At the moment BraveHeart was sketching Ember and Scoffer who were both sleeping soundly, curled on either side around the tiny form of Dreamer. The baby was clutching Seeker's Somewhen teddy bear that he had picked up the night Dreamer had joined them. Seeker had thought it a nice gesture to give the little girl something from her home country. 

“I was just thinking: How is that possible?” Seeker wondered.

Half, face screwed up in concentration, didn't look up. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ : How could you have arrived at The Hunt only a few months before me if The Hunt only rides during Yuletide? Or did you insinuate, you joined the winter before I came?” That would have been a weird way to phrase it then though. After all, a year was a year and not a few months. 

“Ah, that?” Wolfe opened one eye and shot him a look, before closing it again. “Berchthold.”

Seeker huffed. “Gosh, Wolfe, you know how I detest well-articulated answers that make sense. Please don't bore me with needless details.”

BraveHeart chuckled at that.

“What my duck meant to say was that sometimes during non-wintery seasons when Berchthold is out alone on his solitary ride, he picks up lost souls on the way and brings them to The Hunt; which is what happened to us,” Half offered, hairpins between his lips.

Seeker tilted his head. Aha. Yeah, that actually made sense. After all, there were some indecently underdressed riders that couldn't possibly have been picked up during winter time. Okay, one mystery solved. 

Wolfe rolled her eyes. “Yes, that is what I meant. But call me your 'duck' again and I'll throw you into Holle's Pond.”

Half's face went pale and Wolfe also suddenly looked shocked. 

“Sorry! That was a joke!” she squeaked.

Seeker looked from one to the other. “What's the problem? You can't swim or what?”

“Being able to swim won't help you _in there_ ,” Half said darkly and lackadaisically accepted an apologetic kiss on the cheek from Wolfe. 

Eyeing the tranquil pond with its midnight blue water, its ever-present soft bell chimes and its gentle Somewhen glow, Seeker couldn't help but be confused. “I don't get it.”

“Well, it's really not that difficult, Seeker, it's _Holle's_ , as in, it belongs to Perchta” the redhead grumbled and dropped the same strand of hair for the third time. 

“Yes, and?” Seeker shot back irritably. Of course he knew that the body of water was Holle's since a) her 'house', Spillalutsche's Stone, was standing right at the bank and b) _the bloody pond was named after her_. 

Wolfe turned her head that was mounted with a hilarious hairdo à la Half. “ _And_ the pond is a bottomless pit! Oh, what else? Just the entrance to the realm of the dead, no biggie. Seeker, really, do you never pay attention when the riders talk?”

That was severely unfair. Of course Seeker had listened. He heard so many wondrous stories at The Hunt that he never knew which were true and which were made-up. Yet this one was new to him and he shuddered involuntarily.

“I thought we – _you_ – are the dead.”

“It's a bit more complicated than that. You must know, among other things, Perchta is the guardian of crossroads. While most members of The Hunt really are deceased, we are, for one reason or the other, not yet ready to let go of this world. But people out there die and when they do, they cross over into the netherworld. Or at least that's how we understand it,” she looked at the boys for reinforcement and was graced with nods.

“And _that_ ,” Half took over, pointing at Holle's Pond, “is the entry. They say if you get real close to the edge, inside you can see a silver castle surrounded by a garden full of flowers, fruit and vegetables. Fun fact, one part of that actually belongs to Berchthold. He has his herbs garden down there. But aside from him and Holle, no one can enter the pond. That is, if you want to come out again: Anyone falling into the water will travel to the underworld immediately. So, I wouldn't recommend taking a swim.”

That explained the fact that Seeker had never seen anyone get too close to the pond. Only Holle once, one very early morning, when she, stark naked and somewhat youthful looking, had dove in. He had been wondering about that (and tried to scrub the picture from his brain ever since).

Still, Seeker cocked his head, pondering. “Okay. But here's something that doesn't quite add up. I think I never told you this but actually, Holle's Pond is a Somewhen Thing for me. How can that be if it means certain death and I'm still alive?”

“Maybe she pulled you in as a child,” Half grinned, sobering quickly with a thump to his stomach by Wolfe's elbow. “Kidding. That's just a made-up legend. You know, because people always want to see the bad in The Hunt they say that Perchta is a forest demon who spirits children away into her pond and once they come out, depending on their character, they are either darlings of fortune or changelings.”

“Then she must have taken _you_ , Mr. Changeling,” Wolfe huffed and Half threw her puckered air kisses. She rolled her eyes and turned to Seeker who looked sceptical. “It's really just a story parents thought of to explain puberty, I guess.” She shrugged. 

Seeker frowned. “That still doesn't explain why Holle's Pond glows for me though.”

“Ohhh,” BraveHeart, who had only been listening with half an ear until then, suddenly looked up excitedly. “Maybe you've seen the missing piece?! How awesome is that?”

“What missing piece?”

“Well, rumour has it that some Sunday Children, that is magic doers, once stole a piece of Holle's Pond and spelled it into a stone archway.” With the backside of his brush, the artist drew an ancient looking archway with a ragged veil into the soil. “But they couldn't control its power and everyone walking through the archway never came back, so they hid it in a secret place.” 

BraveHeart's eyes were sparkling at the thought, but Seeker snorted. “Yeahhhhh, sure. And trees grow upside-down. Look here, B, with all due respect to your enthusiasm: This story sounds totally fishy. If Holle's Pond is really the door to the netherworld and she is as mighty as she appears to be, then she would never have allowed people to steal a piece of it.”

“Unless she had reasons to. Perchta can be odd at times,” Wolfe mused. “Maybe she thought it funny.”

Seeker raised an eyebrow. ‘At times’ was a bit of an understatement.

“Well. I gotta say I agree with our sceptic on this one,” Half hummed, putting finishing touches on Wolfe's hairdo. “That archway tale seems too far fetched.”

“Hmpf!” pouted BraveHeart and turned his focus back to his sketch of the Ember-bundle. 

“People do believe the wildest stories, don't they? The power of imagination is so strong in some, even living humans sometimes make it to the pond,” Wolfe shrugged, cringing as her hands carefully felt for Half's masterpiece on her head.

That was news to Seeker. “They do? How come?”

“Oh, that's because – okay, let me start somewhere else: Some call moss folk Rilpen or Saligen, some nymphs and some even fae, believing they are fairies. But do you know what they _really_ are?” Half asked, sitting down next to his girlfriend and taking her hand. 

Seeker frowned. What did the redhead mean: What they were? “No?”

“We told you that Perchta is kind of their 'mother', right?”

Seeker nodded.

“So they are children. Dead children. Or to be precise, unborn children.”

Huh, how did the conversation suddenly turn so dark? Seeker suppressed a shudder. Talking about the underworld was one thing, somewhat adventurous, but this?

“I know what you're thinking.” Wolfe patted Seeker's knee. “But it's a good thing, really.”

“How can dead children be a good thing?” Uh oh, Seeker's voice had grown loud. He should work on his temper.

The girl smiled sadly. “Obviously not the fact that they had to die before their time. But look at it this way: Here, as moss folk, with fun-loving riders of The Wild Hunt as companions, they can play to their hearts' content until they are ready to enter Holle's Pond and be reborn. In a way, Perchta gives them the life they couldn't live out there. That's the reason they have a special connection to her and sometimes know things we others don't. Anyway, occasionally women who want to get pregnant but can't on their own, come here to the pond and offer gold or spindles of homespun yarn to Perchta to ask her for her blessing. And sometimes Perchta answers their prayers and goes into the pond to get a soul that is all set to be born anew and 'gives' it to the mothers-to-be. Probably because these women must really mean it if they made it here even though this area is protected by Hunt magic. But you know what they say: Nothing's stronger than a mother's love.”

“Yeah, that's right,” BraveHeart repeated, trying to sound wise, “love is the most powerful connection.”

“Oh, don't we know it!” Half leered and decided to tip Wolfe over. She squealed and trashed as he pressed fervent kisses onto her face. 

Their noise woke up Ember and he growled something about 'idiot couples' as he rolled over to sleep some more only to be shaken and forced to look at his sketch by an overzealous BraveHeart.

They were all but back to normal, however Seeker wasn't ready to let go of the conversation just yet. “What about Dreamer then?” he almost yelled over the carefree commotion.

“What about her? Get off, you oaf!” Wolfe panted, sitting up.

“Why is she not a moss person?”

“Because she did not die unborn?” duh-d Half, hair sticking up in wild angles. “Because she's still alive?”

Right, they had talked about that before. Seeker, while not being dead, was slowly getting there with the knots of his bracelet turning red, Dreamer's bracelet however was still as pristine white today as it had been the day they had picked her up. That was because their circumstances were different.

“Yes, but you said she will most probably never wake up again. Wouldn't it be better for her if she, you know, were reborn?” He indicated vaguely towards Holle's Pond.

“Seeker!” Wolfe shrieked, all glee draining from her face. “That would equal her dying! How could you say something like that?”

Funny how the tables had turned.

Of course she was right and Seeker himself felt unsure about his next words, but he also thought that he should explain himself: “It's kind of the same thing as with The Beginning. You said it's not The End. Don't get me wrong, I don't want her dead or anything. I just want _something_ for her, because, let's be real, the way she is now, there is _nothing_ for her. Ever. That's why I was thinking, maybe a new life would do her better than this half-life she sleeps away.”

There was a heavy silence as the gang considered this.

Finally, Ember spoke, his voice low and dangerous: “Try touching her and I'll break your arms.” Scoffer growled agreement as a warning.

The others exchanged glances. Maybe it was best to drop this topic for now. When it came to Dreamer, Ember was best not to be trifled with. 

Seeker shrugged. What did it matter? After all, for all they knew, they had eternity to talk about this. “Anyone up for a round of ninepins?”

*** 

“Seeker, Seeker, _wake up_!”

Grumbling, Seeker rolled over to get away from the hand shaking his shoulder.

“Get up!” BraveHeart insisted. “You'll miss it!”

“Misat?” Seeker slurred. He'd been in such a nice dream. He couldn't remember the details, but someone had been singing to him softly in words he hadn't been able to understand but had known they meant love. 

“Frigg is driving out to bless the harvest. It's about time too, after all it's already the end of July.” Wolfe dusted off her dress from powdery snow and turned around. “Ember, should we have Dreamer blessed as Frigg goes by?”

Ember mumbled agreement, but Seeker was not all awake yet. He yawned. “Who is Frigg?”

“Perchta of course. Though today she's Frigg. Now get up or you're really going to miss it.” Half pulled him up. 

Seeker shivered. As far as he could tell it was way past midnight but hours till sunrise. He shuffled closer to BraveHeart; it was chilly, even for Hunt standards, as it was snowing softly. 

_Frigg._ Seeker growled. Perchta. Dormarth. Holle. Couldn't that woman keep one name like every other person? Maybe he should just call her Rolf indefinitely and be done with it. 

“Okay, what exactly is happening now?” Seeker asked, blinking through the twilight cast by last bits of campfire embers. 

“Just watch.” Wolfe nudged his shoulder and indicated towards Holle's dwelling Spillalutsche's Stone, which was as always bathed in the soft gleam of seven overhead-flowing little lights. From there Holle emerged as they waited, her white dress contrasting with the dark of the night. 

Seeker noticed that seemingly all of The Hunt were up at this ungodly hour to witness the spectacle – whatever it was.

Sure enough, out of Holle's Pond rolled a magnificent golden chariot onto the clearing. Seeker gaped. First he thought the vehicle moved on its own but as soon as he had blinked once, he knew better: Harnessed in front of the wagon were two horses, two oxen, two cows, two lynxes and two white cats – in that order – preceded by twenty-four Hunt dogs and a single eagle owl. However they were only there for the time of the fluttering of his eyelids. There and gone in a tick. 

“Er, Ember do you also see those random animals in front of the chariot?” Seeker asked the big guy, while rapidly blinking to perceive the zoo better.

“Yeah,” Ember grunted and rubbed his flat nose. “Those are Frigg's daughters.”

“Come again?”

“Ah, we just call them that. They are not really her daughters... I think,” Half, arm around Wolfe, explained. “Rumour has it she's still a virgin anyway.” He snickered. “I mean, _that_ I can believe, who'd want to hit _that_?”

Ember and BraveHeart joined in his tittering and Seeker hid a grin. 

Wolfe poked the redhead. “You're so rude. She's our benefactor after all, show a bit of respect!”

“Oh, I'll show her all the respect in the world if she doesn't show me anything at all,” Half laughed and ducked away as his girlfriend started hitting him lightly. 

“Right, so, why are her 'daughters' invisible nine tenth of the time?” 

“No idea, man,” Ember shrugged.

Seeker nodded. Just another of the many unsolved mysteries of The Hunt. That didn't faze him anymore. 

Meanwhile Holle, no Frigg today, had climbed into the chariot, taking the reins. The wagon was just big enough for one person to stand in, but had quaint things dangling on its sides: an empty basket and boxes tied with string, as well as what looked like a spear and a sceptre. 

The crone held up a hand and the murmuring of the crowd stopped. “Hunters! I'm off to bless the harvest on the fields and in the orchards. I'll be back. Don't do anything too stupid while I'm gone.” Seeker had the sudden weird feeling that she was looking directly at him. “Bless you all!”

With that she pulled up a hood over her cow horns and clicked her tongue which caused the wagon to gain momentum. 

As the odd lady sped away, Seeker noticed a horse's tail sticking out from under her billowing hem. Huh. Had she always had that?

The moment she was out of sight, a clamour of cheers broke out among The Hunt. Okay, what now?

“Frigg is gone – you know what that means?” BraveHeart screamed, jumping up and down.

“Sunshine!” Wolfe squealed.

“No more snow!” rejoiced Half.

“Sunburn. And rain,” muttered Ember, but no one paid him attention, aside from Scoffer who was always on his heels.

Seeker laughed, infected by the sudden swing to happy mood. “What is all that about?”

“Oh, you don't know yet, Seeker, do you? Just wait and see, it's like super!” BraveHeart beamed and took Wolfe's hands to dance in a tight circle where they were shortly joined by Half.

“The sky,” said Ember dryly and shifted Dreamer in his arms. “Look up.”

Indeed. There was the night sky. It was of a deep endless blue and dotted with countless tiny lights, no clouds in sight. 

_Look at the stars._

He hadn't forgotten about the advice. It just had turned out pretty much impossible to heed, as Seeker had to find out that the sky was barely to be seen between the thick branches of the forest trees and normally a cloud was covering the whole of the encampment's clearing at Holle's Pond.

“Don't know what they're all on about. I'm going back to sleep.” With that Ember turned around and trudged off. 

“The sky above The Hunt is only freely visible when neither of its leaders are present.” Seeker heard a woman dressed in a nun's habit say, addressing a mixed group to his right. “Now, who wants to learn about constellations?”

'I do', he thought and went to sit with them.

The nun was a good storyteller. Seeker found himself swooning over the sad love story of Vega and Altair, the tragically separated lovers, and he was just about to name them his favourite, when the woman pointed at another group of stars: “And this is Draco, the dragon constellation. It...”

Blood rushed in Seeker's ears so loudly he felt like he was drowning in the sound. 

Draco, _Draco_ , Draco...

The boy at the barn. The boy with the storm eyes. The boy, Seeker had been so desperately trying to go back to.

He felt dizzy, the world started spinning. 

His plans to leave The Hunt. His determination to go back to his alive life.

He was getting sick.

The tea Half had given him. Oh God.

“Half,” he croaked. Somehow not all there, he pushed himself up, swaying dangerously as he made his way towards the people he had thought his friends. Anger burned inside him. 

“HALF! You bloody bastard!” Seeker didn't wait for the addressee to react, but lunged forward and threw himself at the redhead, starting to pummel him. 

“What the–? Stop it!” Half tried to shield his face but he had no chance against Seeker's seething rage.

Only with the pooled forces of shocked Wolfe, BraveHeart and Ember did they manage to pull Seeker off Half.

“Let me go! You don't know what he did! He poisoned me! _Half poisoned me!_ ” Seeker shrieked, fighting the grips on his arms and shoulders. 

“It was only for your own good!” Half shouted back, rubbing his face, ugly blotches appearing on his cheeks. “You should thank me!”

“ _Thank you?_ Let me go! Fuck it!” Seeker struggled fruitlessly, tears of outrage over the backstabbing springing to his eyes . “You made me forget about what little I had left of my life! You made me forget about _Draco_! How could you do this to me?”

“He didn't mean any harm, Seeker. Please, just hear him out,” Wolfe pleaded, but that only made him more livid.

He rounded at the girl. “Did you know?” She winced and Seeker stared at her and then at the others, disbelievingly. “Did you _all_ know?” The betrayal hurt more than any of the punches Half had gotten in. Seeker's heart turned black. “I thought you were my friends,” he said bitterly. “To hell with you all. I'm out of here.”

Seeker shook the hands off and started running, faster than he'd ever run, deep into the forest, towards the real world.

He heard them call after him (“You can't leave The Hunt!”), but he didn't look back. He was done with them, once and for all. 

*** 

Seeker woke with a start. For a moment he was disoriented, but then he remembered. Right, he had left The Hunt and run as deep into the woods as his feet would carry him. Then fog had come up. He hadn't been able to see his own hand before his eyes, yet he had walked on and on until exhaustion had overcome him and he had curled up underneath a tree, falling asleep on the spot.

Now, there were voices in the air. 

“Hashtag Windsor, hashtag no filter. A selfie with the Long Walk next?”

Seeker blinked uncomprehendingly at the two sparsely clad young women standing at an arm's length in front of him in the bright sunlight. 

They were not paying him any attention. Instead they did weird postures while holding an arm up high, grinning at it like lunatics.

Pushing himself off the floor, Seeker groaned in pain. Not only had sleeping uncomfortably done things to his back but also were the few places Half's punches had hit Seeker giving off dull aches. 

“Excuse me,” he ventured. 

The women walked away. 

“Hey, I just want to ask you something!” Seeker yelled after them.

They ignored him. How rude!

“Daddy, Daddy, look at the horsey!” A little boy ran up to Seeker and stared wide-eyed at something above his head.

When Seeker turned to look, he found that what he had thought to be a tree he had been sleeping under, was indeed a disproportional, green-tinged statue of a man pointing ahead, riding on a horse. Seeker's gaze followed the outstretched hand and he became aware of a long straight trail framed by tree lines on both sides that was populated by a steady stream of strolling people. There were real, human people – amazing!

“Hi there, can you tell me where we are?” Seeker squatted down to talk to the boy, but the kid just bounced in excitement and put all his fingers at once into his mouth. “I guess you're not supposed to talk to strangers. But I just need to know–”

“What did we say? Don't run on ahead!” A man pushing a pram had huffed up the little hill they were currently standing on. 

“Oh, hello, sir, could you tell me where this is?” Seeker tried, but the man had only eyes for his son. 

“If you can't stay close to me, we have to walk holding hands.”

“No!” The boy stamped his foot. 

“Erm, sorry to interrupt, but I just need–” 

“Young man, I see an early bedtime in your future if you don't listen,” the man said sternly. “or do you want me to tell Mummy?”

“EXCUSE ME!” Seeker felt like a berk for shouting, but it was unnerving how both of them acted as if he weren't there. 

“...okay, Daddy.” The boy offered his father a drooled-on hand. Neither of the two even glanced at Seeker.

A soft breeze carried hot air and laughter up the hill. Seeker felt the world tremble, just a bit. 

“Can you not hear me?” He tentatively placed a hand on the man's upper arm and got exactly zero reaction. “Don't you feel this?” He tried to squeeze, but it was as if there were a thin layer of protection between them making it impossible for Seeker to truly connect with the man. 

The baby in the pram gurgled happily as Seeker's hope shattered. 

He had left Dreamer who he had sworn to protect (even though Ember would take care of her for sure). He had left his friends (well, his backstabbers) at The Hunt to be free and go back to his life, but... The truth hit him like a ton of bricks: No one here was able to see, hear or feel him. There was nothing for him out in the world. And nothing with The Hunt, he realised bitterly. 

Seeker slumped down at the bottom of the statue and just sat there, while people came and went, like waves at the shore. 

It was around noon when the heat of the sun finally triggered him to get up. After a good sulk, he felt better now and was ready to at least try to find someone to communicate with.

He walked down the trail, chatting up every person coming his way, but to no avail. He tried writing messages in the sand, even experimented with noting something down on an old man's newspaper, but nope, no luck. When he came across a lake, he tested if someone noticed water patterns he created. He whispered, shouted, serenaded the park walkers – even tried expressionist dance – but the only reaction he ever got was complete ignorance. 

As frustrating as this was, things got worse when he realised, he couldn't really pick up anything, which meant that although he was obviously hidden by Hunt magic, he couldn't just snatch a few bits of fish and chips from passers-by and thus, in the afternoon, on top of everything, Seeker grew terribly hungry.

At least he found out from studying an area map that he was at Windsor Great Park. But that was barely anything. 

Walking around, grabbing for food and attention in turn, he didn't notice he had reached the end of the park area until he – THUD – walked face-first into something.

“What the hell?” Seeker rubbed his forehead and rectified his glasses. 

There was nothing there. How curious. He carefully reached forward and his fingertips were met with an invisible resistance. With his hands he followed what seemed to be a wall, stretching out to both sides. It went down to the ground and as high up as he could jump. Park visitors were walking through the barrier without a problem, but Seeker couldn't manage, even as he threw his whole body weight against the obstacle.

So, that's what they had meant. He literally was unable to leave The Hunt behind, he couldn't even get out of the area. 

Seeker screamed his disappointment and frustration at the next few walkers (did sweet FA) and then decided to trace the boundary as far as he could.

One hand on the wall, Seeker walked through some underbrush, when suddenly there was a hiss.

_“Watch where you're going, Mugginsss!”_

Seeker looked left and right but couldn't make out anyone.

_“Down here, you heathen.”_

Squinting at the ground, Seeker gave a surprised squeak and quickly backed away. There, in front of him, was a barred grass snake unfurling from what seemed to have been an afternoon nap.

_“Sorry! I didn't see you there!”_

_“Well, obviously,”_ the snake sniffed. _“You big folksss alwaysss think you're too good to look down. Pah. Humansss.”_

Seeker started. _“You.. you can see me?”_

_“Of course. I'm not asss blind as you. Now shoo, you are annoying.”_

Certainly were there smarter things to do than to anger a teeth-armed wild animal, but the exhilaration of being seen and heard was enough to have Seeker throw all caution in the wind and crouch down. _“Sorry again. It'sss just that you're the first, er, being that can hear me. I'm Seeker by the way.”_

_“And I'm not interested. Bugger off!”_

Seeker ignored that. _“I didn't even know snakesss could talk.”_

 _“What ignorance! Snakesss are masterful speakersss. It'sss simply that your kind isss normally too dense to understand. Like you, really: Go._ Away.”

_“But nobody else even knowsss I'm there due to The Wild Hunt'sss magic – I'm one of the ridersss, you know, but I ran off. Long story. Anyway, how isss it possible you can see me?”_

Clearly unfazed, the snake hissed impatiently and started slithering away, yet paused to casually remark: _“You humansss are very thick. That which you don't value, you take no trouble to comprehend. You consider the waysss of snakesss far beneath your notice. Well, let me tell you this, Huntsman: Human magic worksss differently on snakesss and so doesss Hunt magic. Hmpf.”_

That actually made a lot of sense. 

Seeker followed the reptile. _“Right, you are right. Sorry I wasss ignorant, but could you do me a favour maybe? Tell other people, humansss, I'm here? That I need help?”_

The snake stopped in its tracks and peered up at Seeker. _“A) I cannot, since most of your kind are too deaf to understand snake speech and b) I don't want to. Leave me alone already or I'll bite you, ssssss!”_ It bared its teeth threateningly.

Seeker retreated, but not far, he was desperate after all. _“Please, just help me! No one else can and I just, I just want to go back to my life and see Draco again!”_

The snake, pose ready to strike, paused. _“...Draco? A snake?”_

 _“What? No, he'sss a human,”_ Seeker blinked and quickly added, _“but he'sss very snake-like. Very snakey.”_

His interlocutor flicked its tail. _“Oh well then. For a namesake.”_ A pause. _“You may call me Anguisss, that meansss dragon. Come along now, helplessss human.”_

Seeker, who could hardly believe his luck, stumbled after Anguis as they made their way towards the more populated park areas. 

It was true that Seeker wanted to return to his former life, whatever that entailed, but the main reason he'd continuously tried to get someone's attention was the prospect of seeing Barn Boy again.

Yes, it had taken Seeker far too long to put it together, but when he finally got it, the truth had been so blatantly clear that he wondered how he had ever missed it in the first place: the D on his handkerchief, the dragon-form The Beginning took for him, the Draco constellation and the name called by someone at the barn...

 _Look at the stars._ The moss person must have known it somehow. Figured, after all, they saw things from Holle's perspective.

Seeker tugged at the handkerchief around his wrist. 

If The Beginning showed his deepest desire then Seeker had to keep going... because Draco was the reason.

Still deep in thought, Seeker entered a lively park area, following Anguis.

 _“Well, here we are, now what?”_ The male snake sounded very annoyed already and they hadn't even started trying to get anyone to notice them yet.

_“Now we improvise.”_

*** 

They had been at it for hours and none of the park visitors got it. Sure, some pointed at Anguis and some even screamed, but no one looked hard enough to understand the motion patterns as means of communication.

In the late afternoon, Seeker dropped onto a bench on a shaded side path. It was deserted aside from the two of them. 

_“I don't know what else to do,”_ he sighed and Anguis at his feet nodded.

“Well, hullo there.” Seeker's head snapped up. Standing right in front of him was the dragon boy, sunlight gleaming on his blond hair like a halo. He smiled. “Are you lost?”

“You can see me,” Seeker whispered breathlessly. It was impossible. The one person he had wished to meet most in the world had suddenly appeared before his very eyes. 

“Weird, in the past, a snake would have made me think of Slytherin, now it only reminds me of him... all I do these days is think about him,” the apparition said and Seeker finally shook out of his reverie. Of course the other boy was talking to Anguis. 

The newcomer sighed and sat down on the bench, right next to Seeker. “He can speak with your kind, you know? He's a Parselmouth,” said the blond boy, looking down at the serpent.

 _“Do something!”_ Seeker hissed at Anguis. _“Thisss is my Draco. I think he'sss talking about me. Tell him I'm here!”_ Some part of Seeker clocked the word 'Parselmouth' though, for later investigation. 

The reptile shot Seeker an arrogant look and made an eight-figure with its body. _“Thisss isss snake code for 'attendansss'.”_

 _“Well, it bloody doesn't work now, doesss it?”_ Seeker looked helplessly between the snake and the human. 

“Ha, look at me, talking to a snake,” laughed the latter, a badge with weird writing on it glinting on his chest in the sunlight.

“I _am_ looking at you,” Seeker said quietly, taking in the other's profile. “Draco.” The name was still foreign on his lips.

Draco paused for a second and Seeker held his breath. 

Then the dragon boy's face softened. “Is it crazy that he's always on my mind? Even before... See, he got himself kidnapped by The Wild Hunt and now _I_ have to clean up his mess and look for him. It's driving me nuts because I finally _know_ what to do to get him freed, but I can't bloody find him. And all it would take is calling his name once. That's it! Easy enough one should think, but _no~_ , he has to be unlocatable.”

Seeker's heart contracted. “I'm right here and... I think about you too. All the time. At least when I remember... it's complicated, but still – I do, okay? So,” he tentatively put a hand on Draco's thigh knowing fully well the other boy wouldn't feel it, “could you just do it? Call my name.”

Birds were chirping, the air was pleasantly warm and Seeker waited, waited, waited.

 _“Not that I understand human speech, but whatever you're saying isn't getting through to him. He'sss not doing anything,”_ remarked Anguis drily and yawned.

 _“Shut up! He will._ Draco, listen to me: What's my name? Say my name!”

But Draco stayed quiet, clearly pondering on something. Bloody hell.

Seeker nearly jumped out of his skin from surprise as Draco absent-mindedly put his hand on top of Seeker's hand. Impossible. He couldn't know! Or could he?

There was no chance to grab Draco's hand back, the Hunt's magic separated them just enough to prevent that and yet, if Seeker squeezed his eyes shut he could pretend they were holding hands. This should count for something. 

“Draco. Please, say my name,” Seeker pleaded. It would be so easy. After all this fruitless trying today.

“Do you know what date it is? Right, how could you: It's July 31st, his birthday. He's nineteen years old today. Imagine that. Next year I'll know him almost half my life...”

Seeker blinked, momentarily distracted. _“It'sss my birthday,”_ he told his snakey companion.

 _“What'sss a birthday?”_ Anguis drawled lazily, seemingly dozing.

 _“It'sss the day a person was born on,”_ answered Seeker distractedly while watching Draco pulling out a small stick from his pocket. It looked a bit like the one Seeker had found in the back pocket of his own trousers. He had often thought about throwing it out, but it had such a nice length, just right for roasting marshmallows on. So he'd kept it.

 _“Ah, yesss, of course you would call it that. We call it hatchday, obviously.”_ The snake flicked his tail.

Seeker's eyes went big as saucers when Draco started doing magic (what else could it be?), burning little doodles in the sand – a lightning bolt, round glasses, a heart...

Right, so Draco was a Sunday Child, too, capable of magic, cool and– Seeker choked. Was that _a heart_? 

The other boy seemed to have a similar reaction as he went bright pink and started stuttering: “It's not– I'm not– Don't you dare think that I would–” 

Anguis gave Seeker a knowing look. _“Thisss one likesss you.”_

 _“No, he doesn't! He just, he just–”_ Seeker floundered.

“I think I might have feelings for him.” Draco swallowed.

Seeker went completely still, staring at him. “You do?” Of course there was no answer. 

“Do you think he'll come back with me once I find him?” Draco's voice was tight. “What if he wants to stay with The Hunt? For all I found out they are a rather free bunch. Maybe he likes that... He... he's a good guy. That makes it hard on him sometimes. He forgives everyone eventually, even me. But not himself, I think. Even though he didn't do anything wrong, really. But sometimes I wonder if it could be that The Hunt took him because he wanted to be taken, as punishment or something.” 

Seeker paled, shaken by the words. Was it possible? Hadn't Half said something along these lines as well? What if it really had been Seeker's own fault he had had to go with The Hunt? But one thing was certain: “I will come back. I want to, God, Draco, I want to. So just say my name and we can go right now, yeah? Once will do. Come on!”

But Draco instead ran a hand through his hair, his short sleeves revealing a tattoo on his left forearm. It was a skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. 

Seeker shivered, somehow this picture reminded him of the Jolly Roger from The Hunt's games. It made him uneasy, yet he was curious. A serpent for a tongue and he himself could speak to snakes, so was maybe this tattoo connected to him? Did Draco get a tattoo for him? Did he like him _that much_?

“I'll just have to make him then, right? After all, I'm not chasing storms all around the globe to come up empty-handed. I'll drag him back with me even if he's kicking and screaming. Yeah. Just you wait and see, I'll bring him next time, that's a promise.” 

Draco apparently had made up his mind. Good then, because that's what Seeker wanted, too: to be freed.

He grinned, blushing. “You mean I will bring you. Oh and just so you know, I'm chasing a storm, too. _Anyone ever tell you you have stormy eyesss?”_

 _“That isss the worst pick-up line I've heard in my life,”_ contributed Anguis who was still dozing at Draco's feet. _“Good fortune he can't hear you.”_

Oops, had Seeker said the last bit in snake-speech? _“Hey!”_ he protested, but it wasn't heartfelt. He was giddy. Draco was not giving up on him. Everything was going to be okay.

“Thanks for the talk. You're not a bad listener.” Draco got up. Uh oh. It had all been fun and games so far, running into _Draco, here_ of all places, but now Seeker needed him to get real. How could one have a whole conversation about somebody without saying their name? 

_“Shit, Anguisss, do something! He'sss leaving!”_

Anguis shot forward with the apparent idea of wrapping himself around the blond boy's leg, all while hissing a battle cry.

Draco quickly backed away. “Sorry!”

 _“No, you're making him leave even faster!”_ Seeker cried in despair.

 _“You do it then!”_ the snake snapped back.

They had no time for bickering though as Draco had decided to run for it.

“Dammit! Draco, wait up!”

Both boys were neck and neck until – whomp! – Seeker ran full-speed into an invisible obstacle. Again.

“Argh! What the–” His hands disbelievingly touched the magic wall. Oh no. This was a gate point to the area, here ran the border, which meant...

 _“You can't go any further, Huntsman. Thisss isss where your world endsss.”_ Anguis had caught up to them.

“No, no, _NO_! Draco, don't go! My name! Say my name!” Seeker pounded the division with his fists. “Please, take me with you!”

Draco hesitated for a moment.

“My name...” Seeker whispered, furious tears of disappointment running down his cheeks. “You can't leave me here...”

“I'll find you,” Draco said solemnly and disappeared into thin air. 

Seeker slowly slid to the floor. Game over. “You better.”

Anguis soothingly curled around his ankles and Seeker absent-mindedly petted him, something the snake only allowed because he felt the boy's despair. 

_“He'sss such an idiot, Anguisss. Isss it too much work to call my name just once? Slowpoke! And did you hear how he talked about me?_ 'I have to clean up hisss messss' _– yeah, right, well didn't do much of that today, did he? Tosser!”_ Seeker rubbed furiously at his eyes, then sighed deeply. _“I bet we are fighting a lot.”_

 _“Soundsss about right, with two troublemakersss like you,”_ Anguis agreed calmly and darted his tongue in and out when Seeker arched an eyebrow. _“I mean, he wantsss to take on The Hunt for you and you run off from very dangerous ancient magic for him. Hotheadsss the both of you, yes, lotsss of potential arguing ahead.”_

Seeker snivelled. _“You think there'sss going to be an 'ahead' for usss then?”_

The snake took his time answering. _“Well... that really dependsss on you, I presume.”_

 _“But isn't he the one that needsss to find me again and call me by my name?”_ Seeker cocked his head questioningly.

 _“Sure, but that'll only work if you still can be found.”_ Anguis huffed in annoyance when Seeker only gave him a blank stare. _“You are asss daft asss they come: Beingsss can't just leave The Wild Hunt without consequencesss, everyone knowsss that. Those who try end up thwarted (like those black flying skeleton horsesss) or... not at all.”_

Seeker sat up in alertness. _“What do you mean by 'not at all'?”_

_“To cease existing, disappear. You will soon feel it. Only Hunt magic held you together so far, but you left, so it will leave you and eventually you will leave indefinitely. It'sss the way thingsss are.”_

Ice cold fear trickled down Seeker's back. He had been feeling increasingly faint since this morning, but he had thought that that had been because of his tries to get attention. 

He stared at the snake. Impossible, no, it couldn't be that now that he had found a possible way back into his life, he was vanishing. If only he had known, if only he had listened...

A wave of sudden anger flooded him: anger directed at himself but also at others. _“Why didn't you tell me thisss earlier?”_ he snarled. 

_“None of my businessss.”_

Anguis was not wrong. Seeker deflated and swallowed. _“Isss there... no way to stop thisss?”_

 _“Stupid oaf! Of course there isss: Go back where you belong, back to The Hunt!”_ Anguis snapped, seemingly more upset at the prospect of Seeker's demise as he had let on.

Ah, so that was the price. Be with The Hunt or not at all. Very clever, Hunt magic. 

_“I don't know how,”_ Seeker confessed.

 _“How your kind survivesss isss beyond me, with those little brainsss you have,”_ Anguis shook his head. _“Asss long asss you are still here, you are technically part of The Hunt, even if you don't want to be. Feel it inside you – it'll guide you back.”_

That sounded doable. Seeker closed his eyes and tried focusing. He blocked out all distracting thoughts of Draco, Half's betrayal, his own fear and anger and finally, in the very last corner of his mind, he found a tiny glimmer of recognition. When he opened his eyes again, he knew where to go. 

He got up, dusting his pants off. _“Thank you, Anguisss, for everything.”_

The snake eyed him thoughtfully. _“Are you sure about thisss? You could also just... fade away. But in freedom. Better than The Hunt'sss slave forever.”_

 _“Aw, so you do care!”_ Seeker attempted to touch Anguis' head but the snake evaded with a hiss. _“But don't worry. It won't be forever. Draco will come and free me. He said so and I choose to believe him.” He grinned. “And once I'm out, we'll come visit you.”_

 _“Muppet,”_ Anguis growled after him, as Seeker walked away. Then he yelled: _“Better bring a snack, Seeker!”_

 _“I will!”_ The boy waved goodbye over his shoulder. 

*** 

Walking back into the fog, Seeker knew he was on the right way. Soon, he heard the familiar laughter and the clamour of The Hunt. It was blue hour and the world was tinged in fading residue of daylight, when Seeker finally stepped back onto the clearing at Holle's Pond.

The sight that greeted him was the usual chaos of bodies, camp fires and shenanigans and yet it was unusual as the normally omnipresent snow dust had melted, leaving the ground bare.

Seeker had had time to think on his way back here and he was still angry, but ready to face the truth. They deserved a chance to explain themselves and Seeker just needed to know.

BraveHeart, mask placed tightly on his face and shoulders hunched, poked gloomily at the flames around which the gang was sitting, uncharacteristically silent. On the side, Dreamer was sleeping in the hollow between Scoffer's curled up legs.

“Hello,” Seeker said evenly, stepping into their circle.

 _“Seeker!”_ the tiny boy squeaked and threw himself so vigorously into Seeker's arms that the latter stumbled a few steps back before he regained his footing. Only for a second though, for Wolfe barrelled into them right after, followed by Ember who enveloped all three of them in a bone-crushingly tight embrace. 

“We were so worried!” Wolfe blubbered out into Seeker's shoulder. “You could have dissolved!”

“Yeah, okay, I missed you, too,” Seeker gasped. “Em, let off, I can't breath.”

“Sorry,” Ember said and loosened his grip, but did not let go completely. 

“That's right, we're sorry, Seeker, really sorry,” Wolfe cried.

Seeker's gaze went to Half who was awkwardly standing to the side, looking torn. “I want to hear that from _him_.”

“I am sorry that we fought,” the redhead said slowly, his eyes hardening and a stubborn expression appearing on his face, “but I'm not sorry I gave you Berchthold's herbal tea.” Ire rose in Seeker as Half continued: “Because we're friends.”

“Some friend you are!” Seeker gnarled and extracted himself from the cluster of bodies. His hands were curling into fists. “You made me forget!”

_“I did it to protect you!”_

In front of Seeker's eyes danced little stars of fury. It took all of his self-restraint not to hit the ginger again. He took deep, deliberate breaths, then grunted out: “Explain.”

Half nodded solemnly. “Maybe we should sit.”

Without stopping his glowering, Seeker dropped down and folded his legs; the others followed suit. 

Snowdrop landed on his shoulder and rubbed her head against his cheek. Seeker felt a pang of guilt that he had left the owl behind. He rubbed her head and whispered a quiet 'sorry', getting an affectionate hoot as reply.

“Okay, so, where do I start? When you first woke up with The Hunt, you couldn't remember anything, right? Well, the thing you don't know is that this is a two-way street: You forgot about your life, but the people that were in it forgot about you, too. It's not that common that witnesses get taken, but we had heard accounts, so we were aware of what that meant.” Half looked at Seeker with unsmiling eyes. “You wanted to go home – quite understandably – but we knew it was impossible. One can't leave The Hunt. If you do, you fade away. That's why we were so worried today. Good thinking to come back on your own.”

“Don't patronize me,” Seeker snapped.

“Right, sorry. The thing is, we all recognised you as a Somewhen Thing, as someone we had met before. You were one of us from the moment you stepped into our group and therefore we wanted to spare you heartache. Hunt magic is very peculiar, there are many mysteries about it. One of which is the fact that newbies sometimes arrive with remnants of memories, but they will without a doubt eventually lose them all over time. We just helped to hurry that process along in order to make you forget about wanting to leave, so you wouldn't be disappointed.”

“That's why we constantly called you 'Seeker' in the beginning,” Wolfe added quietly, while holding Seeker's hand. “Your Hunt name erased your alive name.” She blinked tears away. “Because the only way for you to escape, back to your life, would be if someone outside of The Hunt would call you by your name. But we knew that there was no one left who remembered you, so...”

“We didn't want to see you getting your hopes up only for them to be shattered,” Half took over. “And then this episode at the barn happened and you freaked and we were afraid you might do something rash. So I traded Perchta my best joke for a few leaves of forget-me from Berchthold's magical garden in Holle's Pond. That did the trick: You forgot your ambition to leave and...” he looked up, pleadingly, “you were happy, Seeker, weren't you?”

“I guess I was,” Seeker acknowledged quietly. Hearing their reasons had quenched most of his anger. “And I see why you thought it necessary, although you should have just told me. But why should I know what's going on? Backstabbing me like that was just...”

“Seeker–” BraveHeart started.

“Don't call me that,” the addressee calmly cut across. “Tell me my real name.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Finally, Ember spoke: “We can't. We don't remember it.”

“What?” Seeker's head snapped around so quickly, it hurt. “What do you mean?”

“It's gone. It disappeared when you accepted 'Seeker' as your new name, the day you burned your jumper,” Wolfe revealed unhappily. 

Seeker swore under his breath.

“It wouldn't help you anyway. Out there, in the world of the living, no one even knows you exist and you can't tell strangers because... You must have realised it on your trip: People can see us only during Yuletide since that is the time between years – one year ends, a new one begins – a crossroad of sorts. That's when Perchta's powers are strongest and between her and Berchthold they can make us all visible. But only then. Now, we are nothing but shadows, protected by the barriers of Hunt magic.”

“Except you are wrong and there is one person that remembers me,” Seeker corrected, gnashing his teeth.

Four pairs of big eyes stared at him. 

“Surprised? Yeah, it's the boy we nearly ran over in front of the barn during The Last Ride back in January. His name is Draco and he is looking for me and once he finds me, he will call me by my alive name and free me. So, I'm not worried. But it would have been nice to know my own name.” 

“How have you learned all that?” Half inquired, flabbergasted.

“ _Because_ I ran into him, out there. He couldn't see me and all, but he probably figured out this is a Hunt area or something. I think he's rather smart, yeah.”

“Wow, that is beyond awesome, Seeker! He must be so cool! Oh wow, that's so rare! Like one in a million!” BraveHeart's eyes sparkled with excitement. 

“He's definitely cool,” Seeker agreed and he finally grinned. “So you better not try anything forget-me-ish again. That way I can leave here without regrets when Draco comes to save me.”

“We won't. Cross my heart,” Wolfe promised and the others nodded, following her in motioning a crossing gesture over their chests. Snowdrop hooted and Scoffer gave a weak woof. “We will miss you of course, when you go, but we want the best for you, truly.”

Oh, Seeker would miss these idiots, too. More than he let himself feel at the moment; but his life was out there, with Draco, and Seeker simply couldn't stay with The Hunt forever. Even if that meant, leaving the friends behind.

He eyed them. “I'm still angry at you, though.” The gang's faces fell. “You can make it up to me by throwing me a bad-ass party since I learned from Draco that it is my birthday today.”

That had everyone jumping up and scattering in bustling busyness. 

Seeker smiled sadly. Their betrayal would stick with him for a long time still; he knew as much. But he understood that their endeavours had come from a place of friendship and he would do his best to see it that way – even if it would take some time until he could trust them again.

Interrupting Seeker's musings, Half approached him carefully, looking uncertain. 

“What is it?” Seeker queried, keeping his voice neutral.

The redhead shifted from one foot to the other. “I know we just made up... we did, didn't we?”

Seeker nodded.

“Ah, good. Well, then... in the light of our conversation just now I need to tell you something. The advancing of your memory loss regarding your life was merely accelerated by calling you Seeker and giving you forget-me tea to drink. What I mean to say is that it is a continuous, unstoppable process related to Hunt magic. Even if you remember him now, if that Draco of yours doesn't hurry, you will have forgotten about him again when he finally comes for you.” He bit his lip, frowning when Seeker smiled. 

“It's alright, Half. As long as Draco remembers, all is well. I put my trust in him. He will come for me. He will find me.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just know.”

Half cocked his head thoughtfully. “You must really like him.”

Seeker hummed non-committally. Through all this, all he had known for sure was that he needed to speak with Draco. The other boy's confession had come as a surprise. Concerning Seeker's own feeling towards Draco, he wasn't completely sure himself. He just knew that, for some reason, he trusted him and whatever Draco meant to him – these feelings were warm and aching and _a lot_. 

*** 

Seeker's birthday party had been a blast. Half had even arranged for fireworks and everyone had been really impressed by Seeker's new-found ability to use his magic stick to burn little doodles in the dry earth. 

Since then summer had come to an end and in the last rays of the late August sun Holle (or Frigg?) finally returned – and with her the clouds above the clearing and the ever-falling snow.

Her previously empty basket was full of fruit and other harvest yield, which she handed out generously among the riders (although they noticed she gave more to girls than guys).

...and then Seeker forgot about the stars.

Colourful leaves were falling when the gang spent an enjoyable afternoon in September with an artwork contest, during which everyone needed to try building something out of nuts. 

Unsurprisingly, BraveHeart lost, as he ate all his building material and then insisted his art was nihilistic and called 'Nut Feast'. An honourable mention got Wolfe's interpretation of 'Berchthold on Sleipnir' which caused the others to refer to this day henceforth as Berchthold's Day. Surprisingly, it was Ember who won in the end, as he simply had put four nuts close together on the ground with a fifth nut balancing on top and called it 'Us' – four Hunt people helping Seeker to stay afloat with his dwindling memories. 

...and then Seeker forgot about the barn.

October brought drizzling rain and a new craze for a game they called hide-and-seek Valkyrie style. The rules were the normal ones, except for when you were found you had to run as fast as you could to a pre-game chosen tree and touch it before the seeker team could. The hiding team would win by having all members touch the elected tree. However, if a seeking person reached the tree first, you were caught and had to 'play dead' (“Hilarious pun, Half...”). If all hiders had 'died', the game was over. Still, a 'fallen' could be 'brought back to life' by the kiss of a 'Valkyrie'. That's why the participating moss folk were playing hiders at all times, since they were the perfect Valkyries and the kisses they gave were always met by a ton of laughter, followed by the 'resurrected' player running and finding a new hiding place. 

Everyone had been surprised when Seeker had switched to Team Jolly Roger in the first game. But he had just grinned when they had asked him and had told them that he had seen a cool tattoo on his trip to the outside world which had made him change his mind about the skull design. 

...and then Seeker forgot about the park.

It was on the last day of November when Berchthold came back to The Hunt, antlers held up high.

And then Seeker forgot about Draco.

*** 

On December 24th, The Wild Hunt packed up camp and made ready to leave the summer residence at Windsor Forest and Great Park. It was a bone-chillingly cold day. So gelid that the trees, covered in ice crystals, looked as if their branches were afire with white flames and the gold offerings from baby-wishers, at the bank of Holle's Pond, were completely frozen over. 

Seeker said goodbye to the moss folk and took a last look around the clearing that had been his home for the last year. He felt somewhat nostalgic, as if he would never come here again. 

A goose honk made him flinch and he craned his neck to confirm that indeed Holle had taken on her Dormarth dog-ish form. In that case, he'd better hurry. 

The now familiar weather change brought storm, thunder and lightning, as well as fog and hail. 

“Chop-chop, Seeker, we got a sighting of The Beginning,” Half greeted him, shouting over the turmoil, while he heaved a heavy blanket onto Lightning's back. Seeker's horse had become slow and fat during summer and was not amused at all to be dragged out to work.

“I know, I heard it. Ember, are you ready?”

Ember was in the middle of putting reins on BraveHeart's horse Grapes. He turned around. “You want me to ride with you again?”

“What? Of course. Unless...” Seeker faded out, uncertain.

“Oh, I do, too, it's just...” 

Both boys eyed Lightning critically. The glutton was really out of shape.

"I guess you could ride with Gee and me for a while,” Half chimed in, hastily fastening a bag to his horse. “He has six legs after all."

“ _Actually_ BraveHeart and I have been talking and _we_ think it would be best if we all took turns,” Wolfe interjected from her horse Binky's left side. She smiled at Ember. “You're one of us, we should all share."

“All good and well, but today he's not putting his hands all over you. So, Ember, you're with me,” the gang's leader decided as the wind picked up.

BraveHeart grinned. “So that he can put his hands all over _you_?”

Ember shot him a dirty look. “The only place I'm putting my hands is around your neck, midget, if you keep spouting nonsense.”

“And around Dreamer,” Seeker supplied, chuckling. The snow was coming down hard now.

“Yeah, our Dreamer... she is so good at sleeping, she can do it with her eyes closed,” Half laughed and mounted Gee, accompanied by a loud thunder clap.

“Stop dilly-dallying! We're leaving,” Ember growled and climbed up behind the redhead. 

Up and away went The Wild Hunt and the second to last knot on Seeker's bracelet turned red. He was too busy looking out for The Beginning to notice, though. 

Ah, there she was! As she'd always been: A small cloud of gentle brightness and in its centre a young woman with floating soft hair bathed in light and shrouded in feelings of purpose and novelty. Seeker knew her to be Holle and not Holle at the same time.

Just as he was Seeker of The Hunt. 

He had forgotten he'd ever seen a dragon in The Beginning. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was that very night when, unbeknownst to Seeker, a certain blond boy of nineteen and a half years went to bed after a long day of last minute Christmas shopping. 

He turned off the lights, hummed a Christmas carol and fell asleep – not realising that he had not said his mantra yet... as he had finally forgotten the last bit about one Harry James Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eVTXPUF4Oz4   
> Linkin Park - In the end
> 
> Imagine a split-screen with one of them on either side.
> 
> Harry/Seeker: Time is a valuable thing...watch the count down to the end of the day; the clock ticks life away.  
> Draco: Tryin’ to hold on... and even though I tried, it all fell apart.  
> Both: I tried so hard and got so far. But in the end it doesn't even matter.
> 
> Harry/Seeker: The way you were mockin’ me... Remembering all the times you fought with me?  
> Draco: Things aren't the way they were before. You wouldn't even recognize me anymore.  
> Both: I tried so hard and got so far. But in the end it doesn't even matter.
> 
> Harry/Seeker: I've put my trust in you, pushed as far as I can go.  
> Draco: I had to fall, to lose it all… in the end it doesn’t even matter.
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  _Gott wael's!_ = God prevail! (German dialect)
> 
>  **Trivia:**  
>  Windsor Great Park:  
> https://www.windsorgreatpark.co.uk/en/visit/download-maps
> 
> The story of Vega and Altair:  
> http://www.japan-suite.com/blog/2014/7/6/tanabata-story-of-two-star-crossed-lovers#:~:text=Tanabata%20is%20celebrated%20to%20commemorate,as%20the%20skies%20are%20clear.&text=Tanabata%20originated%20from%20a%20Chinese,Japan%20in%20the%208th%20century.
> 
> There's an actual Berchthold's Day in Switzerland and Liechtenstein on January 2nd.


	15. Intermezzo VI: While people sing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy March, people <3
> 
> Alright, I said, I wouldn't make you wait on last chapter's cliffhanger, but, sorry, the intermezzo just needs to be.  
> Next week though... things are gonna get interesting XD
> 
> Another interesting thing?  
> Yeah, so I thought I had a fun idea, having Holle's Pond not only as the entrance to the underworld, but also as a place from where (in rare occasions) women can get souls to get pregnant.  
> I was completely convinced I made that up.  
> Then, last week, I talked to my mother about something long ago and she used a phrase she'd said often before: "That was when you were still in the big pond." O.O Mindblown.... the subconcious is a scary thing.
> 
> Also super-interesting?  
> My word-vituoso beta umbrellaless22 (thank you <3) made the philosophical remark that the first scene could be read as Harry's id and ego. Wonderful interpretation!
> 
> Stay safe~  
> Mimbelwimbel

Harry shook off a couple of raindrops. What ghastly weather it was tonight. Even with the umbrella charm Hermione had taught him, he was wet now as the sudden wind gusts had doused him with cold water from all sides. Well, what could you expect from mid-November.

He had been too lazy to use the long way round to the Patchers' entrance and had entered the castle through the front portal instead. 

Earlier, a nightmare had woken him up and after consulting the Marauder's Map (and finding what he'd been looking for), Harry had decided that a bit of patching would do him good.

Now, shortly before midnight, Hogwarts' Entrance Hall lay silent and deserted. There was no sound but the drip-drop of water from Harry's drenched clothes and the quiet snoring of his portrait on the wall.

Harry made a face. Really, that thing was an abomination. 

Thankfully, Headmistress McGonagall had found a way to have Harry's painted self permanently under a sleeping spell after Rita Skeeter had tried to pry information from him during the re-opening celebrations. This way, the blabbermouth painting couldn't give away private details to just anyone and only a select few knew the 'password' to wake up Portrait-Harry.

The real Harry glanced at the to-do-list for Patchers, that now, with the school running, had been put into a corner at the stairs. There weren't that many jobs left, but Harry already knew where he would go anyway, so he dismissed the written tasks in favour of strolling over to the plaques. 

“Hey, guys,” he said quietly to the Fallen Fifty. The answer was silence. Guilt stabbed him unpreparedly like a knife and he quickly turned away. He felt unworthy to face them, as he had failed them so greatly.

Harry sighed and made for the hallway to the dungeons, but his steps faltered before he got there and then he stopped. Damn his curiosity.

He turned on his heels and walked back to his painted twin. After all, this was the perfect opportunity. 

Biting his lips, he hesitated only for a moment, before he spoke the secret word to wake up his portrait: “Mimblewimble.” (Uncle Vernon would have a fit would he know Harry used his ramblings back from the hut on the rock to do magic. The thought filled Harry with glee.)

Portrait-Harry yawned and blinked.

“Hello,” said the real Harry and felt suddenly very stupid. “How are you doing?”

The image eyed him curiously for a moment. “Just fine, thanks. Anything I can do for you?”

“Oh. Er, I just, I mean, I thought–”

“Get a grip! We don't stutter,” chided the portrait.

Harry spluttered. _“We?”_

The tableau furrowed his brows. “Yes, _we_. I'm modelled after your image after all. Also, I know you pretty well and you wouldn't have woken me up for no reason, so spit it out already.”

“Let's get one thing straight: You are _not_ me! Not in the least.”

Portrait-Harry looked down his nose. “Really? Because I could swear you've been checking the Marauder's Map to see if Malfoy's around before coming here tonight.” Harry choked. “That's what I would have done anyway. And for your information, he's probably at the Slytherin common room.”

Harry choked some more. “How do you know that?”

The pictured smiled his goofy smile that the painter had so totally mucked up. “Maybe I've been following him around a bit? I mean, looking is not a crime.” He shrugged. 

Harry felt himself go red for two very different reasons. “Why would you even–? No, answer this first: You are supposed to be sleeping at all times. How can you stalk Malfoy when you're asleep?”

“Stalking is such a strong word, Harry.” He received a glare. “Ah, okay, okay, so, er, sometimes Headmistress McGonagall lets me roam during the nights. I guess she feels sorry for me. After all, it is pretty mean to have me under a sleeping spell all the time. It's like being back at the Dursleys', locked up in my cupboard all over again.” 

“ _My_ cupboard!” Harry growled, although he felt a bit of pity for his counterfeit. 

“ _Our_ cupboard then.” Portrait-Harry sighed. “Just so you know, I don't blab out our secrets just because I'm painted to look like an idiot. I mean _you_ don't have such a hideously goofy face. Why do I?” He frustratedly pulled at a lock of his disarrayed hair. “Still, I'm you, okay? I can keep my mouth shut if need be. I remember all our life up until being painted; I feel like you feel, so could you please stop being a dick to me. I didn't ask to be made!”

“Sorry, yeah. I'm just super uncomfortable with the idea of another version of me.”

“Welcome to the club.”

They were quiet for a moment, each lost in thought, then Harry asked carefully: “You won't tell anyone, will you? About this conversation.”

“Our secrets are safe with me.” 

“Hmh,” Harry hummed, glancing up and then away again, his cheeks tinting. “So, what makes you think that I came looking for someone in particular tonight?”

The portrait snorted. “Oh, come off it! When have we ever _not_ looked for Malfoy – or at him?”

“He's not up to something, if that was what you were implying,” Harry countered heatedly.

“I wasn't. But that wasn't what you thought I thought you thought. Really, you have to stop trying to lie to me. I know you inside out.”

Harry went scarlet at that. “Wasn't lying,” he mumbled.

“Just omitting then.” The portrait nodded.

“It's not like that or actually... Okay, I admit, I'm confused about him, like, really, really confused. You might not know this, but Ginny and I broke up.” Harry's face grew serious. “At first I was devastated but then I realised that she was right: We make better friends than lovers. We are like pieces of puzzle which, after having been burned and broken, no longer fit.” He rubbed his forehead. “Anyway, she and I are over and ever since, no, maybe even before? God, I don't even know where to start. I'm so unsure. What is it about him?” Harry looked helplessly at his own (slightly distorted) face.

“If you're asking me, if you – if _we_ – like Malfoy then the answer is: We don't know.” Portrait-Harry provided. “But the fact that we are even asking this question is kind of... you know, tell-tale?"

Harry sighed deeply. “I know that I like him alright as a person. He's really not such a git anymore and I do enjoy spending time with him. But lately I've been wondering if there is more to it? Do I like him or do I _like_ him?”

“I can't answer that.”

“But you insinuate,” Harry replied thoughtfully. “When were you painted again?”

“Shortly before the start of the Death Eater trials this summer. Why?”

Harry's eyes went big. “But that... does that mean that even back then I did, we did... Did we?”

At this, Portrait-Harry blushed. “Maybe you should talk about this with him.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, subconsciously mirroring the movement made earlier by his counterfeit. “I wouldn't know where to start. Hell, I don't even know if there's anything to talk _about_. But it... when I'm with him, the chaos calms down a bit. We can simply be Malfoy and Potter and bicker and banter and all that. You wouldn't think so with our history, but sometimes it's easier to be around him than Ron or Hermione. I mean, he gets it...”

“The weight of guilt,” the portrait agreed, nodding solemnly. 

“Yeah, that. And it could be we are just becoming friends, but it feels like... more?”

“It's always been _more_ with him, somehow. For better or worse. Mostly worse.”

Harry smiled ruefully. “Right, you would know.” Then his expression softened. “He went to our parents' gravesite with me this Halloween.”

Portrait-Harry's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “He did? How was it?”

“It was nice. Sad, but nice. It really helped to have him there with me. Can you believe it? He even let me cry into his expensive shirt.” Harry chuckled at the memory.

His painted self looked thoughtful. “We never do that though. We never lean on others, not wholly. Sure, we ask for help, but in the end we are used to fending for ourselves. And yet...” he left the sentence unfinished hanging between the two Harrys.

And yet...

Finally the real Harry cleared his throat and declared: “I will think about the sleeping spell, alright? See if there can be a better solution.” 

“You do that.”

“Goodnight,” said Harry.

“Goodnight,” said the other Harry.

“Mimblewimble.” Upon the word, the portrait fell back asleep.

Harry turned towards the Slytherin common room. Even without his way-too-self-confident portrait's input, he had known where to look for Malfoy. After all, the Marauder's Map had shown him earlier. 

While walking down the hallways he wondered why his painted self could speak the truth out loud he himself didn't even dare to think. Maybe, because Portrait-Harry had nothing to lose... after all, _he_ would always be frozen in the state he had been in when he had been painted. Sure, as a portrait, he could make new memories, but he would never really live, never change. Maybe knowing that made him fearless of consequences.

Halting in front of the entrance to the common room, Harry finally pushed the thought away. He knew the hidden door to be behind a bare stretch of stone wall in the dungeons, although it had been years since he'd been in this particular corner of Hogwarts. He grinned; back then he had also come here because of Malfoy, even though at that time Harry had been wearing a Goyle-costume. 

Picking up the Marauder's Map, Harry watched his little ink self as the tiniest speech bubble appeared next to his figure. The words inside said _'Harry Potter'_. 

Harry blinked, then barked a laugh.

He was still giggling, when he pressed out his name and entered the long, low underground room.

Illuminated by the dim light of round, greenish lamps hanging on chains from the ceiling and a dying fire under an elaborately carved mantelpiece, Harry made out Malfoy standing at the far right side, giving off an annoyed vibe.

“Evening.” Harry grinned as Malfoy flinched and spun around. “Nice password they have this week. Got good taste, this year's Slytherins.”

“You mean no taste at all – and it's bloody midnight, you nuisance. Get yourself a watch!” Malfoy growled, turning his back at Harry, who went to stand next to him.

“Well, someone's in a mood. What's eating you?”

Malfoy sighed and rubbed his forehead. “The window won't stay see-through, no matter what I try.”

Right, so Harry had heard: The big circular, observational window into the lake had been shattered during The Battle of Hogwarts. While immediately fixed in order to not flood the whole castle, the spell that had been used had turned out to have the permanent effect of leak-proof but _opaque_ glass. It had since stayed that way, as the window was not a priority. 

“And that’s a real shame,” Malfoy resumed, “because coming in here that first morning after the Sorting and seeing the lake through this window… It’s marvellous during the daytime: The sunlight weaves turquoise patterns and you can watch the creatures living inside, sometimes even the giant squid. You have to see it, Potter.” His eyes were unusually sparkly and he looked younger somehow. Until he turned back to Harry with a frown. “But maybe you did… recently... why are you soaking? Use your magic, will you?” He flicked his wand at Harry, drying off the latter’s clothes.

Harry felt warmth bubbling up inside him. This side of Malfoy was so rare. How was it suddenly so cute that Malfoy was looking out for his younger housemates? Harry frowned. Wait, what? _Cute?_

“How did you get in here anyway? No non-Slytherin should know the password,” Malfoy continued. 

“Secret,” was Harry's mischievous answer which got him a death glare. Yeah, so _not_ cute. At all.

“Well, since you're here, how about some help? I tried these spells,” Malfoy pushed a list of crossed-out words at Harry, “but they didn't stick, so I was thinking maybe...” And he went into a long-winded explanation about the balance of spells and their characteristics of which Harry didn't understand half. 

“Uh-huh, yeah, alright, let's try that, the, er, last one you said.”

Malfoy gave him a long look and then sighed deeply. “You didn't get that, did you?”

Harry sheepishly shook his head.

“Have you learned nothing during your Patcher days?” 

“I've been a bit busy, okay? The Ministry asks me to help with charities and stuff. I can't be here as often as _you_ ,” Harry defended half-heartedly. 

The truth was – and they both knew it – that even if he would spend as much time patching as Malfoy, Harry would never get the finer aspects of counter-balancing and all that since he wasn't paying enough attention. He was good while doing it, but dry theory just wasn't his cup of tea.

“Yeah, yeah, the mighty Scarhead doesn't have time for us mortals.” It could have been a snipe, but Malfoy smiled. “Just follow my lead then. Should be easier between the two of us.”

“The irony,” Harry dead-panned and was pleased when that earned him a chuckle from the other boy. Good. Genuine laughter was what looked best on Malfoy after all.

The spell was complicated, but repetitive and they soon fell into an easy rhythm. 

Harry was on the verge of zoning out, when Malfoy started humming. It was a gentle melody that made Harry feel at ease. After a while words were added here and there, quietly, in a language, Harry was almost certain, was French.

_“Avant toi... J'étais seule ici.”_

The window quivered and flashed a few times back and forth between transparent and non-transparent, then it went dark again.

Harry was just about to say something uplifting, when a pearly someone came crashing through the tinted glass.

“Brr, terrible that lake. Oh, hello, Harry! Long time no see.” Moaning Myrtle, squat and bespectacled as always, pretended to shake off water like a dog. “Good thing you gave some light signals or I would have stayed in there for the whole night. Got flushed, you see. Oh, Draco, hi!”

There was an awkward pause during which both boys tried to stomach Myrtle's sudden appearance and the fact that she had mistaken their trying to repair the window as ‘light signals’, then they both spoke at once:

“Hi–”

“Hey–”

But it was too late, the ghost girl's face had already turned an unsightly dark grey colour. “ _You!_ You both are back here at Hogwarts, frolicking together and don't even say hello?! But yeah, who would think of itsy-bitsy Myrtle once they leave school, huh? No one!” To the boys' horror, she teared up. “You are so horrible! I thought you were my friends! Harryyy, Dracooo, wah. And you used to be so nice! Wahhh.” And without giving either of them the chance to reply, Moaning Myrtle disappeared through the nearest wall, her cries still audible for a few seconds after.

She left a ringing silence.

The lights flickered. No, they didn't. But it felt to Harry as if they did, when the world suddenly started tilting before his eyes. Myrtle and Malfoy and water...

“Whoa, easy there, Potter, maybe you should sit down?” Malfoy's hand was on Harry's arm, steadying him.

“How can you even look at me?” Harry whispered faintly, trying to brush Malfoy off. “After what I did to you in her bathroom back in sixth year.” They had never talked about that incident.

Malfoy snorted bitterly. “That should be my line, don't you think? I tried to turn you over to the Dark Lord." 

“You wouldn't have,” Harry said quietly and let himself be sat down onto the windowsill.

Malfoy was silent for a moment, his face unreadable. “How can you be so sure?” 

“Because I know you. You're not a murderer. You wouldn't have stood by and watched me get killed. I know that. You know that. You wouldn't have,” Harry reaffirmed. Then he cracked a wobbly smile. “Also, you would have missed fighting with me too much. Admit it.” 

Malfoy tentatively smiled back, but it was thin-lipped and earnest.

Harry swallowed. “But I... what I did–”

“Let's not,” Malfoy interrupted, but Harry needed to get this off his chest. How long had he pushed away the memory of that terrible night, when he had nearly taken a life. Malfoy's life... The thought was too unbearable. 

“No,” Harry insisted, “I have to say this now: You and Snape always mocked me about how I thought I was better than everyone else and it used to drive me mad because I thought you were so far off, but the truth is,” he faltered, then went on, “the truth is, you were right about me. I didn't realise it until later, but being treated as if I was special in the wizarding world got to my head and subconsciously I acted as if I were. I broke the rules. I broke the law. Hell, I used Unforgivable Curses. And I... I nearly killed you, Draco. I'm so sorry!” 

He buried his face into his palms, so he didn't have to look at the other boy. Guilt and shame and the fact that he had just called the boy he may or may not have feelings for by his given name for the first time, all while simultaneously destroying any chance of them to ever be anything at all – it was all too much. Harry was having a nervous breakdown. Hunched over, he whimpered quietly. 

No sound from the other boy. Maybe he had left, never to return again, never to talk to Harry again...

Harry startled when Malfoy sat down next to him and gently pried one of Harry's hands from his face, without saying a word. 

While Harry's heaving slowly subsided, Malfoy simply continued holding his hand. When the blond boy finally spoke, it was barely audible: “You already apologized enough, Potter.”

Harry snivelled. “No, I never did.”

“You're an idiot.” The insult was spoken very gently. “It doesn't need words for an apology. You saved my life and you saved my freedom and every day you come here and don't treat me like a leper, you save my sanity. Look, Potter, I was angry at you back then. Of course I was. But I was also drowning in my own fear.” He lightly squeezed Harry's fingers. “I don't think I would have survived that night in the hospital wing if you hadn't been there, comforting me.”

It was true. Crushed by guilt, Harry had crept out of bed the night he had attacked Malfoy in Myrtle's bathroom and snuck into the hospital wing to sit at his rival's bed, while holding his hand and looking at his too-pale face. In the morning, he had left and never told anyone.

Harry looked up, startled. “You knew?” 

Malfoy smiled sadly. “Of course I knew. Who else would steal to my bedside in the middle of the night and squash my hand. You are not very subtle.”

“You never said anything.”

“There was nothing to say.” Malfoy looked at Harry. “And there is nothing to say now. You made mistakes. I made mistakes. We're working on fixing them. I believe you were the one to tell me so. Now,” he got up and pulled Harry with him, “let's get this thing fixed, too, shall we?”

“Yeah... yeah, alright.”

And as if they didn't just have a conversation about life and death and darkness, they returned to chanting spells. But maybe that was the beauty of their current relationship: United they could fall apart and put themselves back together again. 

Malfoy starting singing once more: _“Avant toi, je n'avais rien. Avant toi, on n'm'a pas montré le chemin.”_

Half an hour later, the window finally stayed see-through and revealed the lake: murky darkness aside from numerous glinting dots of bioluminescence and in the distance, a ghostly shine, probably stemming from the merpeople’s dwellings. It was eerily breathtaking.

 _“J'avais les mots mais pas la chanson,”_ Malfoy intoned happily, looking satisfied. 

“Yes, well done us. Now, that song, what's it about?” 

Malfoy grinned. “It's about an annoying guy who always gets himself into trouble.”

A quiet laughter made them both turn around. Myrtle had come back and was now hiding her pimpled face behind one hand.

Harry frowned at her. “Hello, Myrtle. Why are you laughing?”

 _“Because,”_ the ghost said with maximal glee, “Olive Hornby, that bully, used to swear at me in French. So I learned a bit and _that's_ not what it means.”

Looking back and forth between the pale girl and a blushing Malfoy, Harry had the distinct feeling that he was missing something. “Well, what does it mean then?”

“Nothing!” Malfoy exclaimed hastily, his eyes shooting daggers at Myrtle. “Just some song.”

“Yes, but what–”

Malfoy was spared the answer as in that very moment, the entrance to the Slytherin common room was opened and revealed one tartan-clad Headmistress in a hair-net.

“Ah, so it's true then. Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy,” she nodded at both of them in turn. 

“Headmistress McGonagall, what brings you here at this hour?” Malfoy asked, clearly trying to steer the conversation away from the song.

“I was _informed_ ,” the old woman related while giving Myrtle a stern gaze, “that you two were 'being mean to girls at the Slytherin dorms'. Now, I can see, I was woken for nothing. Thank you, Myrtle.” The ghost girl blew out her cheeks. “But it's nice to see you two have become friends. Good work on the window.”

“They aren't friends,” Myrtle corrected, mirth back in her eyes. “They can never be just friends.”

Uh oh, dangerous. Time to change the subject. Harry was grasping for straws.

“Headmistress,” he nearly screamed, making everyone flinch. “Did you by any chance bring some biscuits?”

“...I did, yes. In anticipation. Would you like some?” She gestured at a group of armchairs at the fire which, with the flick of her wand, had roared back into life.

“I could use a snack. For a job well done,” Malfoy shrugged and Harry followed suit.

So, they sat down, chatted and had biscuits. Even Myrtle joined in, after they had invited her into the conversation, when before she had been sulking in a corner for not having been asked.

It was a weird but pleasant tea party (without tea).

Harry came home with the first rays of sunrise and when he finally fell asleep, he heard Malfoy singing in his head: _“Avant toi...”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack for this chapter:**  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d6BzCEkGd3I  
> Vitaa & Slimane - Avant toi
> 
> The song Draco sings to Harry. Interpret it however you like.
> 
> Here are the English lyrics, since I couldn’t find a video with them:  
> There were no pictures, there were no colours  
> There was no story, my soul mate.  
> There were no parties, there was no heart in it,  
> No smile, my soul mate
> 
> You know, the world didn't run smoothly  
> I had the lyrics but not the melody  
> You know, love, you know, passion.
> 
> Yes, it is meant to be, it was said.  
> Yes, that's life.
> 
> [Chorus]  
> Before you  
> I had nothing  
> Before you  
> No one had shown me the way  
> I know heaven doesn't blame me  
> For laying eyes on you  
> Before you  
> No one had shown me the way
> 
> There was no home, there was no happiness  
> I had no reason, my soul mate.  
> There was no laughter, but there also was no crying.  
> I was alone here, my soul mate.
> 
> You know, the world didn't run smoothly  
> I had the lyrics but not the melody  
> You know, love in all its ways
> 
> Yes, it is meant to be, it was said.  
> Yes, that's life.
> 
> [Chorus]  
> Before you  
> I had nothing  
> Before you  
> No one had shown me the way  
> I know heaven doesn't blame me  
> For laying eyes on you  
> Before you  
> No one had shown me the way
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  _“Avant toi... J'étais seule ici.”_ = "Before you... I was alone here." (French)  
>  _“Avant toi, je n'avais rien. Avant toi, on n'm'a pas montré le chemin.”_ = "Before you, I had nothing. Before you, no  
> one has shown me the way." (French)  
>  _“J'avais les mots mais pas la chanson.”_ = "I had the lyrics but not the melody." (French)  
>  _“Avant toi...”_ = "Before you..." (French)


End file.
